


Hung the Moon

by Tiger_Gray



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale owns Crowley, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Holy Water, Hurt Crowley, LGBTQ Themes, Multi, Past Domestic Violence, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Total Power Exchange, Trans Warlock Dowling, Wing Abuse, a really indulgent amount of sex, they all remember the apocanot, things get dark before they get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 69,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19407865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiger_Gray/pseuds/Tiger_Gray
Summary: Crowley knows it is his destiny to die in the second apocalypse, his perfect life with Aziraphale notwithstanding. But with a little help from the most unlikely sources, perhaps there is another way. That said, nothing comes without a price, and even his strategy to avoid being erased from existence has thorns in it.





	1. From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, like everyone is using Hozier lyrics in their fics. But CMON they are just so perfect! Please enjoy, loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a [playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3upf4BIEWNW1TJRn2xr4b0?si=jjy1MMGfRF2M5zZxErlxTw) Come hang out on [tumblr](https://little-wolf-white-peacock.tumblr.com)

For the first time, Crowley thought of how his flat might look through someone else’s eyes. Aziraphale’s eyes in particular as Aziraphale was currently preceding him inside, under his arm as he held the door open. Never before had he considered that his throne might look ridiculous, or that the stone floors could be cold through the soles of one’s shoes.

(he thought of the smarmy antiques dealer who had sold him the blasted throne in the first place. A few oh you’ll look so ravishing and Crowley had bought in and also bought the piece in question. Some tempter _he_ was). 

He considered snapping his fingers and re-ordering everything before Aziraphale could see it, before Aziraphale could notice how pathetic he could be and how lonely his life was, but he thought the better of it (well, he did spare a miracle for the mess Ligur had left on his carpet). His angel should know how life felt without his love. If there was one thing Crowley missed most since his Fall, it was love. 

Six thousand years had done nothing to abate that hunger. 

“Oh hello. Mildred, is it?” Aziraphale was saying, having noticed the plants first. A potted orchid sat near the door right inside the flat. To most eyes, it was a perfect specimen. “Oh no, you mustn’t listen, I’m sure you are trying very hard to be beautiful — “

Crowley stepped in behind his friend and closed the door. Everything he wanted to say roiled inside him, as if the fire he’d become so accustomed to as of late had come to live in his veins and synapses. It hurt, worse than the Fall. Wanting, _pining_. And for so long. He’d never forgotten the Fall, and he’d never forgotten this fall, either. At least the first had been over quickly, by comparison. 

“Aziraphale.” He started, feeling quite stupid. He’d spent millennia dodging the subject; getting started on a really good, well-overdue confession made him struggle more than he wanted to admit. 

(He had the sudden desperate urge to back off and see Aziraphale safely to some hotel or another so he could miracle up every self-help book that had ever existed on the topic. Definitely _The Five Love Languages_ and other such rot. He might have been a demon and naturally above such things, but he was also desperate). 

No. If he missed this chance, only god Herself knew when he’d get another one. 

_Right. Clumsy and awkward it is._

At least a healthy gloom still lay over his living room; he wasn’t sure he could have been honest under the full brightness of his harsh and unforgiving lights. 

He kept his sunglasses on too. He wasn’t ready for Aziraphale to see all the need and vulnerability he was sure could be easily discerned even through his inhuman gaze. Maybe especially in his inhuman gaze. Had a damned annoying tendency of going all moony and gushy when he was happy, like a cat in a catnip patch. Not like a proper serpent at all. 

“Well, maybe you could try a pink flower next time,” Aziraphale told the orchid in an encouraging tone. He’d bent at the middle a bit as if he were trying to be eye to eye with a bloody plant, his waistcoat rather endearingly rumpled at the back. “I have it on good authority Crowley enjoys pink.”

“Aziraphale,” he said, and this time something about it made Aziraphale whip around towards him, startled.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley said, holding his hands up in a contrite gesture.

_What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re a bloody demon! A crown prince of hell! Get your shit together. You’re acting like a mewling schoolboy._

He all but stumbled forward the couple of paces between him and Aziraphale, gripping Aziraphale’s hands wretchedly. The winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky finger left its imprint on his flesh. The surprise registered, he saw, but neither did Aziraphale shake him off and step back. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, his voice quavering just a little. Did the angel realize? He knew Aziraphale could sense love, but would he really have sensed everything Crowley carried around, and then been so cruel as to just…ignore it? 

“Look, will you…will you let me just say something? And not talk until I’m done?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale tendered the words with such kindness that the fire inside him made Crowley all but wince. He was so worked up Aziraphale’s touch, so simple, so chaste, both stung — blasted Divine energy — and excited him beyond all measure. 

_What kind of fool am I, that holding hands for ten whole seconds makes me want to sell out both Heaven and Hell just to stay with him?_

“Angel”, he tried. “Since well, everything almost ended, you know, forever…” 

_You’re babbling now. Great._

Aziraphale, of course, looked unfailingly patient. His feathery hair had settled into a soft corona. His eyes, blue like the first sea Crowley had ever properly created, had no guile in them. In short, his angel was totally open in a way Crowley’s demonic heart envied, envy that made him taste bitter steel. 

“I just…it made me realize there are things I’ve never said to you, and I’d like to correct that. I need to. I don’t know if I told you but I thought you were dead when the bookshop burnt down. There was Divine stink on everything, and fire like I’ve never seen, and I couldn’t feel you anywhere. That maybe that last phone call was you asking me for help, and I’d ignored it.”

He didn’t mention how he’d been sure it was all Gabriel’s doing, the jumped up little prick. Gabriel might have been a lesser angel than Aziraphale in the hierarchy Upstairs, but he wasn’t above a sneak attack. Aziraphale would have been most vulnerable in his bookshop, where he felt he could relax and let his guard down and drink tea with extra sugar out of that silly angel wing mug. Aziraphale was still technically a Principality. More powerful than an archangel. They’d need to take him by surprise to have any hope of killing him. But with Uriel and Sandalphon on Gabriel’s side the odds got a lot better. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and the breathiness rendered on his name made Crowley shiver. He freed one of his hands and snapped his fingers, miracling up a glass of wine that he promptly drained before willing the glass away. Even demons needed liquid courage at times like this. 

(It was a mark of how flustered he was that he hadn’t managed to come up with a vintage anywhere near drinkable and yet he’d tossed it back without so much as a simple frown of distaste). 

“Just wait, angel,” he said in the softest voice he knew to use; only Aziraphale could get that tone out of him. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m…when I invited you here, it wasn’t so you could sleep on the couch.” 

It took a long moment for the gears to turn in Aziraphale’s head. Crowley waited. He could be patient too, even if he were terrified. Even if he were a demon and by definition an impulsive force of nature. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, then drew another shaky lungful of air. “Oh, I see.”

“I’ve been in love with you since you gave away your bloody stupid sword,” Crowley said, half to himself, “what kind of angel gives away his holy weapon? God —oh _bugger_ , Satan, uh —, I was intrigued, I wanted to know more. And then, and then…it just became _you_ , eventually. It wasn’t just wanting to be near an angel that wasn’t like all the other bastards. It was wanting to be around _you.”_

Now that he’d got going, he couldn’t shut up. He cringed but it would have taken a divine miracle to make him stop and Aziraphale didn’t seem like he was about to take pity on him and intervene. 

“And I know I move too fast sometimes, I know that. But if this is something you don’t want, or you do but you need more time…I’d wait another six millennia for you.” 

Aziraphale stood silent, long enough to make Crowley go mad. Sure he would be rejected he made to move back. But instead Aziraphale tightened the grip on his hand, and then stepped right into his space. Before he could register what was happening, Aziraphale kissed him. 

It was a soft, tentative thing, but oh so sensual. _Delicious_ , just as when he’d watched Aziraphale taste chocolate mousse, running his tongue over and around the spoon to get every whisper of flavor. And love, fucking _hell_ so much love. It transformed all that fire eating him up into shining silver, moonlight and stars and angel wings. 

He was dimly aware of being pushed back against the door, and never in his life had he been more up for it. Whatever it turned out to be. 

When the kiss ended, he was panting and weak-kneed. He traced his lips with the tip of his tongue, catching every little taste, the taste of angel, of Aziraphale in particular. It was lemon meringue and candied violets and the clean, easy sensation that came after a spring rain, as if for a few precious moments all the filth of modern life had been washed away. The barest hint of sweetened Lipton tea. 

It hurt. It seared into him, not physically, but could he daresay into his soul? He sensed Aziraphale’s mark, something perhaps even another demon could have seen. Some contrarian part of him hoped that would be true. Six thousand years of wanting to belong to Aziraphale, for Aziraphale to belong to him. 

Did Aziraphale know that once, back when he’d been scattering stars across the universe like loose diamonds, Aziraphale had been intended to serve him? 

Aziraphale. _Of Raphael._

He wondered what he tasted like to Aziraphale, since Aziraphale crowded in to kiss him again with more hunger than he ever would have attributed to his friend. Did Aziraphale feel his claim the same way? 

“Since Eden, Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured against his lips, and if Aziraphale hadn’t been holding him up by force he likely would have collapsed. 

_Collapse? I’m about to bloody discorporate._

“Yes,” he said again, suddenly feeling like a supplicant. A feeling he hadn’t had since he’d demanded an answer from God on his knees, railing at Her for his Fall. “Yes.”

Aziraphale pulled back enough to study his face, reaching up to take his sunglasses off with such gentleness that he had tears in his eyes by the time Aziraphale set the glasses he’d come to rely on so to the side. 

For a long moment, they just…looked at one another. Truly looked. It was the most intimate thing that had happened to Crowley in forever - maybe ever - and he drank it in and let it revitalize all of his parched, lifeless places. 

He almost fell on Aziraphale then, so overcome that he pressed full length, stealing kisses, his hands clumsy but everywhere he could reach without crossing whatever lines Aziraphale might have. Aziraphale was so enchantingly soft, so yielding and sweet. He’d been all over the globe and experienced so much more than a mortal ever could, but all that paled in comparison to being in Aziraphale’s arms. 

“1941,” Aziraphale gasped in a moment’s lull, “that was when I knew. I knew I loved you, that…that maybe you loved me… I’m…Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Crowley managed, though it took considerable effort to form a coherent thought and even more to get it past his lips in an intelligible manner. The words mattered. They mattered so much, hearing Aziraphale say he returned the feelings, that he was sorry for not having acted before now. But having the love of an angel turned towards you, focused on you, oh, there were no words at all to capture it. 

“I should have told you. I said all those cruel things. I…”

“You weren’t ready,” Crowley whispered. He was a demon and couldn’t forgive the way an angel could, but any bitterness he might have harbored evaporated. “What…what about now?”

Aziraphale hands slipped under his jacket, skimming his ribs, coming to rest on his shoulders where his wings would be were he to manifest them. He had the strangest sensation; he wasn’t sure that, if he were to do so, they would still be black. 

_Whatever are you talking about, you idiot? You’re a demon, you…_

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Aziraphale said, the words murmured against the sensitive skin just behind his ear. 

“I barely do,” Crowley confessed, quivering - actually ruddy _quivering -_ with the kind of want and need he’d never felt for anyone or anything else.

“Really?” Aziraphale said, incredulous. Aziraphale pulled back to look at him, enough to study his expression for any signs that he’d been joking. 

“I tried,” Crowley whispered, feeling absolutely fucking naked despite still being fully dressed. “I made _the effort_. I…to tell you the truth, I found every plush, white-blond young man I could, and tried to fall into bed with them. The closest I could get to you, I thought, so I had better get used to it. But when it came to the time to perform, I…couldn’t. The illusion…well, it was just that, wasn’t it? An illusion.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale took hold of his scarf and slowly unwound it. He had to bite back a whimper; he did have an image to uphold. Though he’d probably already shattered _that_ into a million pieces. Dimly, he noticed the aroma of green things beyond what his plants could be counted as responsible for.

_Oh. Apples. Of course._

His mood - or more likely their moods together - were starting to have an effect on the environment. 

“I really must apologize again,” Aziraphale said. He looked up, claiming Crowley’s gaze. Crowley looked back, feeling very human of a sudden, right down to the pounding heart. He wanted to speak up and tell Aziraphale there was nothing to be sorry for, but Aziraphale made a gesture warning him off. “No, it’s my turn, Crowley. Let me speak. 

Aziraphale straightened a bit so he could continue. Crowley felt bereft even by that small disconnect, but his eyes were fixed on Aziraphale’s fist, half of his scarf still wound around it, the other length tight around his neck. Just enough to make him needy as all…well. As all hell. 

“I was cowardly,” Aziraphale continued. “Afraid. I thought, at any moment of course Heaven would see reason. I still believed that they would and must do the right thing. And that also meant pretending. Pretending you and I were enemies, pretending to myself even moreso than I did for Heaven’s sake. I’d never felt anything like that. Like this,” he amended. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand over his heart. Fuck. So tender. _So_ tender. “I thought if I pushed you away, if I ran from it…Oh Crowley, I didn’t want to see them destroy you.”

“Angel,” Crowley managed, his body strung taut, his mind a mess, emotions almost too big for his being to contain. “I think we’ve already established that I would defy Hell for you.”

A second kiss, more practiced than the first. It wouldn’t have surprised Crowley if Aziraphale had been flipping through the extensive archives in the back of his mind, referencing every tome on kissing technique he’d ever run across. 

(Including, it must be said, _How to Kiss like a Tarted up Harlot,_ a title that enjoyed pride of place in Madame Tracy’s boudoir). 

“And I, Heaven,” Aziraphale said, sounding not in the least bit nervous for once in his life. His voice resonated, as if he’d made a promise the universe had heard. Crowley could hear the barest echo of Aziraphale’s true power, power his angel had never been comfortable wielding. Yet, Aziraphale was a Principality. That hadn’t changed. 

The barest memory arose in him, the smallest breath of what the divine had felt like back when he’d walked heaven freely. 

“And…I do happen to know one way to get started.” 

Aziraphale gave his scarf a tug, and he followed, leashed, into the darkened bedroom. 

* * *

**_Pepper._ **

_The voice had an odd familiar quality. Her mother? Anathema? She moved, searching, in the manner of dreams; distance and bodily concerns had no meaning here. It reminded her of the vortex around Adam when the apocalypse had been gearing up to start, but this was a lot more pleasant. The difference between skimmed milk and whole. One ruined your cereal, the other got you excited for the day because you could drink it after you’d finished and it had turned sweet and pink._

_She found herself in a meadow, perfect and sun-drenched without ever being too hot. She wandered, her bare feet sinking into the plush grass. She felt there was a reason for her to be here, but that she had all the time in the world to see what unfolded._

**_Peace._ **

_It was a concept, yes. In fact this meadow was the epitome of it. But it was also a title, a name._

_When a woman took shape and started coming towards her, at first Pepper didn’t know whether she ought to run away, or right into the figure’s arms. She settled for standing transfixed in a patch of dandelions._

_The woman was black, so dark-skinned she seemed to pull in other colors and refract them. Her hair was made up of thread of gold and silver, shimmering loose behind her as she walked. Her eyes, like her wrapped, flowing dress, were pomegranate-red. She wore gold jewelry on her wrists and upper arm, an anklet flashing in the sun and a magnificent necklace dipping into cleavage Pepper, in the way of young girls, envied._

_“Who are you?” She thought she said, though the words transformed into blue butterflies that lifted on the spring wind in a joyous updraft. She realized the woman had a magnificent spray of poppies in her arms, heart’s-red blooms that curved back over her shoulder a little, they were so numerous and heavy on their vine._

_“I live in the spaces between Heaven and Hell,” she said, and Pepper dropped to the ground, covering her ears. The woman’s voice had such power that it made the borders of her dream swim alarmingly. “I am the one who should say be not afraid.”_

_And Pepper wasn’t, the words banishing her terror. She looked up. She knew a fair amount of mythology - had to, with a name like hers - and she wracked her brain for answers._

_“Persephone,” she guessed._

_“Very good. You defeated War.”_

_“I did,” Pepper said, not yet old enough to care much about humility or tact._

_“Brave girl,” Persephone said. She smiled. It was a flight of beautiful golden birds, and the rictus of a corpse newly-dead. “You must know that her place remains empty. Waiting for someone to fill it.”_

_Pepper stood and folded her arms over her chest, screwing up her face into the stubborn look she got whenever her mother insisted she wear her coat outside._

_“I’m not going to be War. Not ever.”_

_“I’m here to offer you Peace.” Now that had her attention, and it shut her up too. Persephone continued in a voice like rattling bones. “There’s a new era on the horizon now. A chance for balance, a chance for the world. You could be part of that.”_

_She wanted to protest for a moment, to say she was only twelve and a kid and that it wasn’t her job to fix the world. Why shouldn’t the adults do it, when they’d messed it all up in the first place? But then again, they’d probably just make it worse. Couldn’t trust them to do anything right._

_Before she could answer, a second figure appeared. He? She? Came towards them as if summoned. At first she thought they were an angel, because of their white robe. But as they approached, she saw that the white was shot through with purple. They were dark-skinned too, but their facial features shifted and changed and blurred so much she couldn’t get a single picture of what they actually looked like._

_The figure held the flaming sword, the one she’d used to defeat War. And yet, so much compassion and love poured off this new person that she couldn’t feel much apprehension._

_“You say Peace, but they have…that?”_

_She demanded, trying to sound like an adult. The way her mom sounded whenever she got nasty calls about paying her taxes (Pepper’s mother did not believe in paying 25% of her taxes as, she was fond of saying, it represented the percentage spent on the military). She pointed at the new figure too, just for good measure._

_“Obatala,” Persephone said, a smile on her face so dazzling Pepper suddenly realized why her parents had thought to christen her Galadriel; it reminded her of the passage in Fellowship of the Rings about the elf queen being “both beautiful and terrible like the morning light.” It was a protective name, she realized, and a destiny. “I’m glad to see you.”_

_Obatala, she didn’t recognize at first. But she thought of her father’s study, imagining and examining all of the art he had on the walls. She lit upon the correct one: Yemaya in a dress of gold, rising from the ocean with her arms outspread._

_“Are you an orisha?”_

_“Some would call me the father of the orisha, in fact,” Obatala told her. Their voice had no gender, or more accurately it combined a feminine lilt and a deeper tenor. “I bring you this sword not to turn you into War, but to give you the means to justice.”_

_A memory of her father rose up unbidden. She was sitting on his knee, ‘knitting,’ though it was more tangling up yarn hopelessly instead of making anything recognizable. Her mother was reclined on the couch across the room, a fire in the fireplace throwing its light; her mother’s beautiful black hair glimmered and her slender pale hands all but glowed as she gestured. Her parents spoke quietly but passionately; later Pepper would look back and realize how many of her memories were characterized by her thoughtful, intelligent parents tossing ideas back and forth like expert basketball players with a ball._

_“Remember, Pippin,” her father said in an aside, “a riot is the language of the unheard.”_

_“I understand,” she said to Obatala, and she truly did. “If I do this…how? I’m just a kid.”_

_“That is part of what makes you special,” Persephone said, kneeling and cradling the huge poppy vine in her arms. “You see and understand Peace in a way many adults no longer can. Will you accept these, and become that, become Peace?” She asked, offering the flowers. Obatala stood by, silent, watching._

_Pepper thought hard, though not long. She was still a child and that meant impulsive decisions, though if you had asked her she would have said she’d weighed all the options quite carefully._

_She took the flowers. And when Obatala offered her the sword, she took that, too. The hilt warmed in her hand, the way it had when she’d thrust it through War’s chest. Hers now._

* * *

_Honey don’t feed me_

_I will come back_

_—I Will Come Back, Hozier_

Crowley might have left the rest of the flat as is, but the bedroom he couldn’t help but change before Aziraphale all but dragged him over the threshold. He didn’t want his angel to endure a spartan, function over form cavern when he could easily miracle up some cloud-soft bedding, a few well-placed plants, and some art on the walls. 

Sure sign someone is struggling in their life, when they don’t have anything on the walls. He might be a sadsack but he didn’t have to be _pathetic._

Aziraphale stopped at the foot of the bed. Crowley felt more than saw Aziraphale’s hands come up to cradle his face. Everything his angel did felt like a benediction, and it burned like a castigation. Crowley welcomed both. He _craved._ He _coveted._ Even before the Fall, he’d _wanted_ like no other angel ever had. That much, he remembered. 

Their lips met again, the kiss more daring, deeper this time. He also happened to remember hanging the stars. He remembered a ball of light rotating in his palms until it became a universe, the joy he’d felt at letting it rise to its place, as light as a dove’s feather on a wind redolent of freshly manicured grass. 

Kissing Aziraphale felt exactly the same. 

With a single pull he undid Aziraphale’s ridiculous bow tie, and Aziraphale huffed a little muffled laugh into the kiss. 

“You really must find something that isn’t tartan, angel,” he admonished when the contact ended. 

“Oh honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale teased, in a way Crowley hadn’t ever fully acknowledged his angel was capable of. Aziraphale pressed the collar of his silk shirt between his fingers, the tiniest gesture that nonetheless made every single cell in Crowley’s vessel stand at attention. “You’re one to talk. Red silk shirts? A bit on the nose, don’t you think?” 

Those hands that handled antique pages with such care went to work on the pearl buttons keeping said shirt closed, with a shaky eagerness Aziraphale usually reserved for fresh pastries wrapped in cellophane. 

“Eh well you see,” Crowley mumbled, _quite_ cleverly thank you very much. 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, pausing. He looked caught between real concern and mischief. “This isn’t - “

“Satan’s sake, don’t say - “

“Too fast for you?” Aziraphale said, without even _trying._ The flash bastard, just laying down a line like _that_ with the ease of a shed feather meeting the ground. He stared, feeling outright scandalized and with Aziraphale’s warm hands stilled, for the moment, on his chest, he re-evaluated which one of them was actually the demon and which one the angel. 

He would have loved to come back with something snappy and smart, but instead he stammered out a no like an idiot while Aziraphale looked far too ruddy pleased with himself. 

“Aren’t I meant to be the tempter here?” He added, because the truly infuriating aspect was that the slyest thing Aziraphale had probably ever pulled off in his entire six thousand years made him, by contrast, all gooey and stupid. More so. 

“You are,” Aziraphale said, empathically and without guile. 

Crowley could have just miracled away Aziraphale’s many layers of clothing, but he thought he should return the favor; he undid the buttons of Aziraphale’s waist coat with simple manual dexterity. “How many angels do you think end up in this position?”

“Gabriel, if all his staring at Beezelbub says anything,” Crowley quipped, though privately he did think he was onto something and, should he ever be captured, he would be sure to throw it right into Gabriel’s face, the massive bell-end. 

Aziraphale looked positively scandalized, but Crowley saw something there he’d noticed before but never to this degree: Aziraphale was _reveling_ in it. Enjoying the idea of Gabriel being brought low by the very thing he’d tried to condemn the two of them for. Just enough spite in Aziraphale’s pretty blue eyes to make Crowley go mad with desire, if he weren’t already. 

He pushed the vest off Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he couldn’t help but notice that fussy, prissy Aziraphale didn’t even react to his clothes hitting the floor in an untidy heap. Crowley peeled him out of his shirt next, not at all surprised to find that what body hair Aziraphale did have was white and downy, like swan feathers. Just like his wings, but the soft, vulnerable bits underneath the protective primaries. 

Aziraphale glanced at him shyly, then around, and down to the floor. It was an expression Crowley had seen many times, a look that meant his angel wasn’t sure what to do or say next but that he very much wanted it to be something the Head Office would have classed as forbidden. 

He also crossed his arms over his middle, as if he felt he needed to hide even in front of Crowley. 

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands one at a time, and gently urged them off. Aziraphale wasn’t usually self-conscious about his soft body, but Lucifer knew what Heaven had said to him lately. Aziraphale looked at him with such tender trust that his demonic heart should have been full of evil anticipation. The chance to corrupt someone - to corrupt a fucking _angel -_ to lie to them all night, to tempt them into acts they would never usually do, only to leave in the morning without any explanation. A little more heartbreak in the world. Or, if he were particularly lucky, a whole lot of corruption and maybe even a Fall. There wasn’t a demon out there who wouldn’t have salivated at the prospect.

Except him.

Because that wasn’t what happened. Not even a little. He felt such answering love that for a moment his demonic nature receded, and the euphoria of hanging the stars once again coursed through his veins. 

He had the truly mortifying thought that perhaps Aziraphale was the only star he needed in his sky, these days. 

He took Aziraphale’s hand and guided him over to the bed, sitting on the edge so he could toe his boots and socks off. Aziraphale took his cue and did the same, though he had to lean forward to undo the laces on his oxfords.

It made a roll of fat appear over the waistband of his trousers, and Crowley wondered how Aziraphale could be self-conscious of such a wonderful thing; it showed how much Aziraphale loved the world, loved the pleasures inherent in it, how even as an angel he allowed himself to be a hedonist. Crowley had spent countless nights watching his angel take bites of the most exotic and well-made foods, sighing in pleasure even as he ate so daintily. Watching pink macaroons and hand-churned ice cream alight on Aziraphale’s tongue had done more to him than he’d ever let on. 

“You have no right to be so beautiful,” Crowley said, lounging back on his elbows. Aziraphale looked at him, plainly startled. Before he could open his mouth to protest, Crowley cut him off: “Yes, I mean it. Or have you never noticed the way I look at you?” 

Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley grinned. 

“Well, I didn’t want to assume…” Aziraphale said, prim. Crowley laughed. Hells, it felt good to laugh. For there to be a world to laugh in at all. Aziraphale leant back and reached over. Crowley could hardly take even such an innocent touch as this was, smoothing down the front of his shirt. It stung where Aziraphale’s fingers met with his bare chest, but he loved the pain. 

“Surely you’re not going to do this with your clothes on,” Aziraphale said, raising an eyebrow. Despite everything the sheer hunger and want in Aziraphale’s eyes took him aback. He’d never thought much about his corporation, beyond whether it fit in with the humans around him and whether it felt good to reside in. But with Aziraphale watching him so intently, he felt a very human set of reactions. 

He sat up to shrug out of his open shirt, letting Aziraphale give him a once over. It was only fair, after he’d made it clear he wanted to see Aziraphale’s body for what it was. Aziraphale’s hands moved far quicker than Crowley would have given him credit for, undoing his belt. Aziraphale paused a moment, letting the head of the leather-tooled serpent press into his palm, then whisper across it as he pulled it free of Crowley’s belt loops. 

“Uh,” Crowley stammered, not at all prepared for this needy creature his angel had turned out to be. It was more than he’d ever dreamed he’d get from Aziraphale, and it threatened to scramble his brain to the point where there would be little of the Original Tempter left in him. 

But then the buttons on his trousers being undone jolted him to action and he couldn’t wriggle out of his remaining clothing fast enough. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hands before his angel could touch him, though, returning the favor and undoing the buttons on Aziraphale’s trousers in return. The angel got the point and took his clothes off more gracefully than most would have given him credit for. 

The two of them clambered up onto the bed more properly, sinking into the downy comforter Crowley had conjured up. He and Aziraphale reached for one another at the same time, reveling in the simple feeling of skin to skin contact. Perhaps these bodies were ultimately just masks over their angelic and demonic selves respectively, but that wasn’t quite true anymore, was it?

_But you’re neither of those. You’re something much better. Human incarnate._

Their own side. Maybe that’s what it meant. To be both divine/infernal, and too human for their own good. As if to underscore the point he felt _quite_ aware of how his body had chosen to respond to Aziraphale’s closeness, how it almost hurt, the ache, the want. 

“This is where you will have to instruct me,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear, and he couldn’t keep back a groan; Aziraphale probably had little notion of how suggestive that sounded and somehow that made the words all the more erotic. 

He was about to reply when it became apparent that Aziraphale had _made the effort,_ and the evidence was hard and thick against his thigh. He could well imagine Aziraphale paging through manuscripts for examples; he’d done a damn good job.

Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, the soft, downy threads making him feel reverential in a way he hadn’t been since his very early days as a new angel. He’d always found his home here, he supposed, once Heaven no longer wanted him and it became clear Hell didn’t fit. Found it in someone else. 

“It really just depends, angel,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment to indulge further in all the little sensations having Aziraphale cuddled up to him caused. “On what you’re comfortable with. Because I can think of a very short list of things I would turn down and I doubt any of those are on your mind.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him just as he was looking down, and there were those damnably perfect blue eyes with just the barest rings of celestial silver at the edges of his irises. 

“Your eyes,” Aziraphale said, and despite six thousand years of evidence to the contrary, some part of Crowley expected the next words to be cruel. “So lovely.” 

The kissing was just a natural outcome at that point, Crowley thought dizzily as Divine energy buzzed along his nerves. He worried, as their mouths touched and the kisses deepened, that if he could feel Aziraphale’s energy, what must his be doing to Aziraphale? But Aziraphale wasn’t reacting like —

_Oh for Satan’s sake. You like it, don’t you Zira? It hurts, and you like it._

“Fuck me,” Crowley gasped when there was enough of a pause to draw breath. “Please.” 

He let his hands rove over Aziraphale’s naked body, squeezing all that lovely softness, and the one part of Aziraphale that was decidedly not soft in the least. He might have felt self-conscious about his own bony body if Aziraphale hadn’t been looking at him like…

_Like I hung the moon._

He thought, and nearly spoiled everything by laughing hysterically. Who _cared_ what he’d been before? Aziraphale didn’t remember him from Heaven and somehow that was so much more gratifying. All the desire was for who he was now. Not in spite of his being a demon, as it had been for so long, but because of that. Because of everything that made him who he was. 

“Should I…?” Aziraphale said, giving him a terribly endearing curious look. He knew what Aziraphale meant, had watched enough humans doing what they were about to to know that a lot of them preferred to be coaxed into it. Sometimes with copious amounts of stolen olive oil, if the parties in Ancient Greece were anything to go by. 

“No,” Crowley found himself saying. He hardly doubted he could put up with the kind of torture (albeit the sweet sort, like biting into a ripe peach) that would have been. He gave Aziraphale’s hair the slightest tug, and reached between their bodies with his free hand. He wasn’t the experienced sort, but he knew more than Aziraphale. Certainly enough to get Aziraphale’s cock in him properly. “Give it to me.”

A pang of worry crossed Aziraphale’s face, but before Crowley could ask whether or not Aziraphale was having second thoughts, the angel let himself be guided. 

It took all his demonic powers to hold still when Aziraphale’s cock pressed into him, to stay relaxed enough for it to work at all. Everything in him was screaming to take it greedily, and now. He spread his legs all the more and gripped Aziraphale’s sides with his knees, urging him onward, and Aziraphale took the hint. 

The first real, confident thrust tore a cry from Crowley’s throat, Aziraphale’s fat prick forcing him open. He saw a spark of worry in Aziraphale’s eyes but he shook his head, telling his angel not to worry. He liked a little spike of pain in most things he did, even down to how he drank his cocoa (with extra cinnamon and a dose of chili pepper hot enough to be an open handed slap). 

“Keep going,” he managed to whisper. Not in all his millennia as a demon had he ever felt as decadent as he did right now, head thrown back on one of his ruinously expensive pillows, body cradled by the plush mattress as Aziraphale slammed in to him. He never would have expected such a claiming from stuffy, anxious Aziraphale, and that made it all the more exciting. 

He lifted his hips, meeting each movement, wringing out every drop of pleasure that he could from what they were doing. They might each have been so much more than their human bodies, but this was all human. Crowley could see why wars had been fought over this very act, who shared it with who, how depraved it was, who did what when. It anchored him in his body the way nothing else had, and he exulted in sharing something like this simply because they were in love and they wanted to. 

His fingers crept into Aziraphale’s hair again, their eyes meeting. He could see whole nebulae there, he could see the Garden, the parts of Heaven it still killed him to miss. Praise tumbled out of him in a wrecked series of hisses and moans, every movement of Aziraphale’s cock making his vision white out with pleasure. He could hear Aziraphale all but panting in his ear, the confirmation that it wasn’t just one-sided enjoyment. 

“Yes..s..” he said, head thrown back, nails raking down Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Come inside me, Zira, please.”

He said, far past embarrassment. Would Aziraphale’s come burn too? Everything in him had been pliant and open from the start, and the thought instead of making him tense only made him relax all the more. He wanted the burn, hoped it would. 

“I will,” Aziraphale murmured against the shell of his ear, making his already over-sensitized body tremble. “I love this. I love you.”

He would never admit it was the words that did it, that the next thrust of Aziraphale’s cock against his prostate was more than enough to send him writhing and shouting into the best orgasm he’d ever had. It couldn’t compare to all those lonely times he’d done himself in this bed, rutting against the softness of blankets and pillows until he came everywhere. 

Aziraphale gasped and not a second later Crowley could feel all that divine come fill him. God, it burned. It felt like trying to contain a comet or a falling star. He was afraid he really had screamed then, but when Aziraphale made to get off of him in alarm he clung too hard for it to be possible. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered brokenly. “god.”

“Careful, my dear, or you’ll get Her attention,” Aziraphale teased, and when Crowley next focused on his beloved face his angel looked as undone as he was. His pale skin had reddened with exertion and affection, and his eyes were almost completely celestial silver. Crowley could see his pearlescent wings unfurled in the other world, where he and Aziraphale were both more concept than being. Where Aziraphale wasn’t just a bookstore owner fond of little cakes, but an avenging Principality. 

It should have scared the hell right out of him, perhaps literally. But because he had all the self preservation instincts of a deer on a country road he longed to touch that essence. To bond with Aziraphale in every way. A hazy dream smudged his vision, him and Aziraphale locked in a mating flight. 

Aziraphale drew out of him, so slowly, so carefully. It caused another round of shivery aftershocks that Crowley accepted joyously. When he could order his limbs again, he rolled over to snuggle up to Aziraphale like a serpent seeking out a warm basking stone. 

“Zira,” he said, feeling more tender than he ever had about anything, “do you want to, you know…” 

Ugh. He wasn’t used to being so tongue tied. Aziraphale was looking at him softly. Aziraphale was often full of love. Hell, Aziraphale was arguably _made_ of it. Crowley often saw that in his dearest friend, but it was all _agape_ , never _eros_ or _ludus._

_Until now._

The sheer eros would have been enough to knock Crowley on his ass, but intertwined with _philia_ …it was enough to make even a wily serpent cry. 

“The other realm,” Crowley continued as Aziraphale looked at him indulgently. “Just essence. I’d bond with you that way too, if you wanted.” 

“I’m afraid I would hurt you,” Aziraphale said slowly, thinking it over. “More than you would enjoy, I mean.” 

“I don’t think you could put me at risk even if you wanted to,” he said. He felt that such a statement reflected a real and observable truth. Already, their souls had to be intertwined. They were an angel and a demon, yes, but they’d already proven they were unique. 

Crowley sighed, content, when Aziraphale caressed his cheek. 

“All right, my love,” his angel agreed. “As long as you aren’t too weary. You’ve done more than most ever have, and all in the last forty eight hours.”

“I’ve always got energy for you, angel.” 

Crowley was aware of Aziraphale smiling at him, and then in a flash they were back in that white, neutral space he’d used to stop time during armaggedidn’t. He couldn’t have missed Aziraphale if he tried. His angel had retained a vague human shape, but it was as if Aziraphale’s skin were made of liquid gold. Hundreds of eyes covered that skin, disappearing beneath the white flowing cloth of Aziraphale’s dress. He had the six wings more suited to a seraph, so incredible that Crowley felt himself drop to his knees as if to worship; they were white still, but interspersed with pastel colors in a muted rainbow. 

Aziraphale turned to look at him and it was like being struck by lightning. The circlet on his brow shone and sparked, a living thing, a repository of divine energy that couldn’t stay still. 

Even his blackened soul wanted to shout a paean to any and all who could hear. He wished he could have shown Aziraphale his celestial form in return; Raphael’s glories that had been stripped away when he Fell. 

“Let me see you,” Aziraphale said, and his words rolled over Crowley in a wave full of voices. 

It took effort at first to let his true self out, but when he got the hang of it he stepped free of his human form as if he were taking off his clothes. His body elongated and scales erupted, his mouth full of fangs. His wings burst into being, and while he had just the two they sucked light out of the space, though he could never hope to dim Aziraphale’s light.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, coming closer. “You’re amazing. Look at these lustrous scales.”

Aziraphale petted him, seemingly unfazed by the massive serpent creature his lover had turned into. Crowley stood up on his coils, pressing his broad head into Aziraphale’s hand. Strangely, it burned less here than it had in the real world. Maybe they truly were canceling each other out. 

When they melded, it was by accident. One minute they were touching, and the next they were one being. They shifted and changed on a whim, reality much more malleable here. It was effervescent laughter, a snake chasing a lion, exultation. Aziraphale was everything about Heaven that he missed, everything, everything, _his_ everything. 

Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s wings, the handfuls of feathers he’d hung onto when it became clear what they were going to do. They jumped like live things, zapping his palms. What a demon wouldn’t do for just a single angel feather; they had powerful properties, as he was now intimately familiar with.

His barriers had come down, and his admiration and adoration were blazing out of him like an aurora. They were both down to pure essence, shapes discarded. He pressed himself into Aziraphale and the borders around their identities were gone. The whole-hearted love from his angel was enough for him to…

_Be not afraid._

He knew they’d switched with one another when he heard Aziraphale strangle a cry of surprise and recognition. 

“Raphael?” 

* * *

It only makes sense that such a bonding between powerful beings such as Aziraphale and Crowley were would alter reality. Miracles burgeoned in the apartment, and dispersed out towards the street like a cloud of dandelion fluff. Those fated to die were granted another day. Sick animals were healed. Things grew, oh so verdant, on every available surface. 

Some miracles were more sinister. Serial killers missed their step on a body dump and joined their victim in death as they tumbled down the hill. Businessmen discussing how best to screw the poor all fell ill, thanks to their expensive seafood being the result of a sneaky red tide, not noticed until the damage had been done. 

But perhaps the best miracle of this nature was the one that befell Warlock.

When he went to steal from his mum’s purse, instead of a twenty pound note there was a thick stack of fifty pound notes. Enough to get away, to flee and be himself. Well, herself. 

_Wendy, s_ he thought, kneeling there in the darkened closet with the money cradled to her chest. _That will be my name._


	2. Have Mercy (On the Sinners and Saints)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds returning to Heaven, even disguised as Aziraphale, to be more difficult than he imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I hate writing canon scenes, but I think I had enough stuff going on in Crowley's head to make it original enough to post. Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos and comments. Y'all make this possible.

Pepper was not the only being to dream that night.

_Crowley dreamnt. He couldn’t remember the last time he had, since the Fall. Just as well. Who knew what terrors his mind might conjure up? He might not be particularly good at being evil, but demons like Hastur were and he’d stood by for more atrocities than he cared to admit._

_“Crowley.”_

_The voice boomed in the chambers of his heart and the wet spaces of his brain._

_“Full offense,” he snarled between his fangs, very prominent just now, “but fuck off, Mother.”_

_“I tell you,” the voice -he refused to acknowledge it could very well be god, beyond his initial outburst - “you must crawl on your belly and eat dust.”_

* * *

Crowley woke with a burnished golden feather pressed to his lips. Its scent was pure Aziraphale, whispers of cologne, the barest hint of musk. The feather thrummed with power, so much more than just an idly shed primary. It had come from the spot where Aziraphale’s wings met his shoulders, the cap of feathers that helped meld the human characteristics to the angel’s. 

That night even Aziraphale slept. Weariness was to be had in great quantities for all involved, though Crowley couldn’t quite remember what had happened before that. Well, beyond the mind blowing fucking they’d indulged in so. 

He would have thought on it more, but he opened his eyes and what he saw took all of his attention. 

The room was a veritable Eden, covered in vines and flowers and plants. Jasmine flourished next to oranges, English roses next to birds of paradise; absolutely mad combinations of things that never would have happened in the mortal world. A creeping vine and verdant moss covered the ceiling and floor. The tallest tree, its canopy tucked against the corner of the room, hung heavy with ripe apples.

He sat up, the feather still clasped in his fingers, feeling light headed as if he were still stripped down to his essence, as if he were still dreaming. 

“Zira,” he managed, a hoarse, awed whisper. The flora hadn’t invaded the bed itself, but huge branches had twined around the footboard, sprays of yellow and blue flowers that had no mortal equivalent. He felt Zira’s feather get heavier and heavier in his hand, as if once separated from its angel it turned to pure precious metal. 

Aziraphale came around slowly, all but mummified in the blankets. Crowley couldn’t help but reach out and grab Aziraphale’s arm, vaguely sorry about the painful pressure but needing Aziraphale to see this _right now._ Hells, it looked so perfect, and the days in the Garden hit him like a sucker punch. Yes, he and Aziraphale had their roles even then, their status as being on opposite sides. But it hadn’t meant as much, with only Adam and Eve to tempt, and he and Zira were more apt to lounge in a patch of sunlight eating berries than smite/curse one another. 

Tempting Eve was probably the only thing he’d ever done that Downstairs considered properly demonic, and he’d been trading on it for millennia. Hastur and Ligur getting uppity? Excuse me, who is the Original Tempter around here? That’s what I thought. The Lord of the Flies buzzing around him, demanding he perform more works of evil? Piss off, insect, I tempted Eve herself. 

(He knew, of course, that this largesse would run out eventually. That did not, however, keep him from antagonizing the other demons like they were a bunch of tightly wound dog breeders on show day). 

Aziraphale sat up and he got the third shock of the morning, and he’d only been awake for ten minutes. 

“Hey uh. Did you know you’re well…that you’re me?” Crowley said, stumbling over the words. 

_“What?”_ Aziraphale said, instantly coming awake from one moment to the next. He righted himself more properly and looked down at his hands. Crowley, rather belatedly, inspected himself. Yes, just as he’d thought. All his sharp edges and angles had been softened by a layer of lovely fat, and his broad hands were Aziraphale’s down to the angel-wing ring. There was even a slight smudge of ink on his thumb, from Zira’s habit of rubbing it alongside the bottom edge of whatever page he was reading at any given time. 

Only then did he remember what had come after the earthly pleasures: the two of them melding together so deeply the borders between their selves meant nothing. The joy at being able to become one being. 

_Aziraphale’s cry: “Raphael?”_

“Well,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking, “we’ll just switch back then. It can’t be too hard…”

“Wait a mo,” Crowley said, at the same time Aziraphale turned to him and with bright snake-eyes wide said, 

“I have an idea, my dear.” 

* * *

_Jesus Christ, I'm done with it, you narrow minded piece of shit_

_I'd sooner cut off my own dick than be like you_

_Did that make you uncomfortable?_

_Is your macho pride in trouble now?_

_When you've beaten me up, then what will you do?_

_Heterosexuality is a Construct, Onsind_

Heaven was nothing like he remembered it. 

Back when he’d been Raphael, Heaven had been new. That was a relative term when it came to an ethereal realm, surely, but it hadn’t been this hollow office building made of metal and chrome. Light came in through the windows here, but it revealed nothing. It didn’t revitalize Crowley’s poor abused body the way real sunlight might have. Nothing of comfort, nothing of joy, no new angels learning to soar, or choirs learning to create all the things the humans would need, down to the last fig and the tiniest trickle of spring water. 

More than anything else, the makeover told him that perhaps people like Gabriel held entirely too much sway in the politics of Heaven. He spotted Uriel, god’s light for Someone’s sake, looking at him as if she’d been carved from gold. The irony of Uriel literally being a false idol almost made him lose it again, laughing hysterically the way he’d been tempted to when making the space and stars analogies while looking into Aziraphale’s eyes. 

It changed his mind about his dream. It changed him. 

_I tell you, you must crawl on your belly and eat dust._

That was the rub, wasn’t it? _Must._ As if it had been ordained from before, while God was sculpting the first humans. He often wondered why god seemed so capricious in her whims, so cruel to her own creations. Could it be she’d become less omnipotent than before? Did she need to craft these elaborate scenarios and rituals to influence things? 

_Oh…oh no._

The consequences of free will. The free will he’d bestowed upon the humans, the moment Eve bit into the most perfect apple that had ever existed. The first apple that had ever existed. By definition, god _couldn’t_ intervene the way she once had. The same for Satan, or there would be little point to creating an anti-christ. And what was an anti-christ, besides Satan’s human liaison on earth? 

His mind, as usual, churned with questions. He hadn’t the time for any of them just now, and so he studied Gabriel, Uriel, and Sandalphon for any traces of recognition. None. He’d thought, were he ever to return to heaven, he would have done anything to stay. But looking at their impassive countenances twisted his guts with black dread and the overwhelming urge to flee broke over his head like a freezing wave.

He had a disturbing vision of himself in snake form, writhing fruitlessly under Gabriel’s stylish dress shoe. 

“Up,” Uriel said, Gabriel’s voice having barely penetrated though he certainly knew Gabriel had been taunting him. He had to re-focus, inhabit Aziraphale’s body properly, or they would both die. And it wouldn’t be an inconvenient discorporation. Not this time. 

_Do something, or I’ll never talk to you again._

He didn’t need to suppress a shudder as a lesser demon waltzed in and lit the pyre. He’d been horrified before. Now, as the fire roared to the ceiling, he was numb with it. How could any angel do this to another? Erase them completely, take them out of existence? Just for being _his_ friend, for knowing that this kind of thing was wrong, that no one should be obliterated for _love,_ of all things. Rage started to build in his center mass, a dying sun filling him with a different kind of fire. 

He tamped down his emotions mercilessly, a clever bricklayer building a wall whilst the hapless prisoner behind it protested through a fog of wine-induced stupidity. Too slow, too slow to escape. He hoped that sentiment wouldn’t apply to him too, at the end. 

He made a stab at appearing like Aziraphale, though he felt protective of his angel even when Aziraphale wasn’t truly here; he didn’t want to show these monsters Aziraphale’s belly. Still, it was what Zira would have done, so he made some attempt at the kind of charitable, composed farewell the other angels would have expected. 

Only to be interrupted: “Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.”

He almost exploded out of his borrowed form in a rush of wings and fangs; he remembered the glories of Raphael here, more clearly than on earth, and power was one of the strongest features in _that_ galaxy. He was sure, in that moment, that he could and should kill them all where they stood. 

_Remember when we created the wonders of space together, Gabriel?_

He wanted to spit the words like his snake form could spit venom. It chilled his blood even further to see an angel he would have called brother once behave in such a manner. But Aziraphale would have done none of those things, so instead he reigned in all of it. It took most of his strength, and he felt sick inside at keeping back the desire to manifest and smite all of them. His snake form slithered and swelled under his skin, demanding freedom. 

He approached the fire. Even just standing next to it, it felt good. It topped off all the energy he’d spent. A really ruinous amount, if you thought about it. The ride in the burning Bentley. Stopping time. Preventing the apocalypse. Going home with Aziraphale and enthusiastically reminding each other they were alive, that they’d done what they’d set out to do against all the odds. 

He allowed himself one protest: “we’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.” Certainly Aziraphale would have said it, maybe, but really it was all Crowley. Couldn’t they see what they were doing? What hypocrites they were, having a demon bring them hellfire to play with? 

At Gabriel’s prompting, he stepped into the flames, sure to keep Aziraphale’s funny little walk to the last moment as he crossed those awful, sterile tiles under his oxfords. Of course, the pillar of fire did nothing. It felt rather like a pleasant bath to Crowley, and he all but sank into it with a sigh of contentment. He took great pleasure in the hosts of Heaven as scared as they’d made Aziraphale, over the centuries. 

One little moment of spite: maybe he couldn’t allow himself to spit venom, but he could spit hellfire. Watching them all jump back soothed his angry heart. 

They rushed him out of Heaven after that, Uriel and Sandalphon taking his arms and force-marching him out the door. He made sure to keep his wings brilliant angelic white, opening them with a rush of wind and dreamily floating back down to earth in a series of pleasant drunken swirls and descents. 

Earth. His home. _Our side._

There was a heady feeling he always had when flying, especially because he didn’t get to do it often. But this was so much more than what he’d experienced before. It was _freedom_ , he realized, the knowledge that for a little while anyway they would leave him and his angel alone. 

_Let Aziraphale make it through the trial. Anyone who happens to listen to the prayers of demons, let it be so._

* * *

Home in Mayfair, waiting for Aziraphale. Planning a rescue, if needed. Even if he had to kick in every door in Hell, even if he had to fight Beezlebub and Dagon and Hastur. Somehow, he would win. He promised Aziraphale that much. 

He approached his safe with trepidation weighing him down, as if he were dragging his wings _and_ his feet. No holy water this time. He took out a single scrap of paper, one he’d hidden even from his love. The edges were singed, curling from being exposed to fire. Yet, the message stayed bold and black. It took him a moment to translate it in his mind, but he’d looked at this paper so often that a moment was all he needed:

**When the armies of mortality/Clash with the armies of Heaven and Hell/Only love may save you/Yet, love comes with a blade in hand, forged betwixt good and evil, instead of with a tender touch. You must die in order to live.**

Crowley held his breath, and read the last line.  
****

**The Name does not mean what you think it does.**


	3. Anyone Who Tends a Fig Tree Will Eat its Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) more sex  
> 2) Zira and Crowley being Those People and it's sickening  
> 3) Crowley has several gifts for Zira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iirc Zira never actually sees those pictures of him and Crowley in the show so there's a minor change here where Uriel brings them when she and other angels go to beat Zira up. Probably throws them in his face, tbh.

Aziraphale made his way through St. James Park, sure to keep up the Crowley act down to the last detail. He doubted he would ever get the knack of walking as though his hips were only theoretically attached to the rest of him, but he gave it his best.

Hands jammed in his pockets, he sauntered down the path. Watching everything through Crowley’s damnable sunglasses made him realize how little Crowley must see on a daily basis. He had the sad thought that maybe such blindness was part of the point. Dimming the stars he’d helped create, inaccessible to him now? Seeing everyone else through a dissociative fog via smoked glass, glass that made everything feel just a little bit unreal? 

As was often the case, the park was as pleasant as a postcard. The famous flowers reached gleefully upwards, blazing scarlet and cheerful yellow. They were like young maidens at a May pole, lifting their hands to the sky to show their love of the sun. 

A weeping fig gave him pause; the plant represented many things, but all Aziraphale could think of was how it symbolized a fall from grace, the marking of something evil. The Snake, coming down to earth to tempt. The leaves that Eve had used to cover her nakedness, after tasting from the Tree. 

_Jesus answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things than these._ He had to suppress a shudder; _Thou shalt see Heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending on the sons of man._

 _Well,_ he thought with an open defiance that was not so much new to him as it was quite recently acknowledged, _we shall see about that._

The sense of resistance propelled him the rest of the way, their bench, still empty, in his line of sight. Anxiety came upon him like a bolt of retribution. He remembered the tub full of holy water, what they’d meant to do to his, well, his love, if he were being perfectly honest. Horror made him very aware of the quirks his human body had, as his heart started pounding and he broke out in a cold sweat. 

_Oh, stop it. You’re acting like a morose old man. You know better than anyone that Heaven takes their sweet time. They aren’t going to just poke and prod him and let him go._

He took his customary seat, and tried to focus on the pelicans going wild for feeding time at the water’s edge. He tried to calm himself by reciting facts about how pelicans had happened to come here in a droning internal monologue, and then switched to the past twenty errors he’d found in his beloved misprint Bibles. Funny how one misprint could change the meaning entirely, wasn’t it? 

Crowley showed as he was going through all the versions of Acts. Aziraphale looked up and before he knew it he was on his feet and crossing the distance between them, cradling Crowley’s face and kissing him desperately. Who cared if they’d switched bodies?

 _Who gives a fig_ , he thought, feeling quite mad just then. 

“Well,” Crowley said when the kiss ended, “it’s nice to see you too.” 

“Hush and give me my body back so I might do that more properly,” Aziraphale said in an urgent whisper. He glanced around, the sense he’d done something quite dangerous making hm feel as if he should go and find the nearest hiding spot. Instead he squared his shoulders and adjusted his shirt, turning to the bench and taking a seat again. 

He wanted to ask Crowley what it had been like to return to Heaven. And a million other things about Crowley’s true identity. He remembered Raphael. Perhaps not well, but he did. It had been hard to miss him, with the dust of the very cosmos clinging to his form on the rare occasions he’d returned to the Throne of the Lord. He’d been more theoretical than physical back then, they all had, but Aziraphale could remember a fine robe, and immense wings cut from the fabric of space itself. 

He asked none of those questions, and shared none of those memories. 

Crowley sat beside him, and he studied the body he’d leant to his dearest. It certainly could be called soft, though Gabriel had over-exaggerated that particular trait. Just to be rude, Aziraphale thought, quite offended. There was no need for this world he adored so to be tainted by such pettiness. It wasn’t a good thing for angels to be so removed from their Lord’s creation, as to enact cruelty on its very surface. 

_They forget its worth._

He thought of Gabriel describing food as crude matter, and suppressed a scoff. 

“Is anyone looking?” He asked, partly because, yes, he didn’t want any mortal eyes to alight on something as blatantly supernatural as swapping bodies. But also, he couldn’t help but remember those terrible pictures of him and Crowley, daring to sit beside one another. Daring to brush hands, or meet each other’s eyes. Uriel brandishing the photos in front of his face as though he’d committed an unforgivable sin, for _loving._

_Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell._

After a moment’s assessment, Crowley assured him no one was lingering about. Crowley offered his hand, unsure. Aziraphale studied it, then looked into Crowley’s eyes. Those beloved eyes, so dynamic, so bright, even behind shades. 

“Is that really how you would prefer to do this?” 

Crowley took his hand back and for once, he looked unsure and…and…

_Vulnerable._

“No,” he admitted. Yet Aziraphale could see how he couldn’t make himself move; Crowley was just as nervous as he was. He reached over, gathering Crowley close with a gentle touch. When their lips met it happened without either of them having to think about it. As inevitable, perhaps, as a flood. 

Back in their own bodies, Aziraphale realized that all they had to worry about was lunch at the Ritz. No more apocalypse. No more antichrist. No more rude notes and visits from their respective Head Offices. 

_Or being assaulted outside one’s own bookshop._

Just too much wine, dainty pastries, and his love at his side. 

As they walked together, he took Crowley’s hand. Crowley looked at him, shocked, but all he did was shrug and smile. Crowley didn’t move away.

* * *

“Dagon and Uriel,” Crowley slurred, arm and arm with Aziraphale as they made their way towards the car. 

“No!” Aziraphale said, affecting an affronted gasp. 

“Oh yes, angel,” Crowley said, feeling quite amused at the thought of other angel-demon pairs. “We’re setting a very good example! Won’t plenty of them want to fuck each other, at the very least?” 

“Are you suggesting our night together was so life-altering other ethereal beings won’t be able to resist, well, trying it out?” 

Crowley paused, looking out over the night-shrouded street to the Bentley in its parking space, the one that was always somehow free. A fine mist hung in the air, and a freshly birthed quality clung to the pavement, the firmament over their heads, in every tree, flower, and bird. 

“That, angel, is exactly what I’m saying.” 

“Hm,” Aziraphale considered, leaning against him enough to thrill Crowley’s already thumping heart. Bloody thing, always making him feel like he’d had one two many cups of Aziraphale’s dosed up teas. “Beezlebub and Gabriel, then.” 

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. God, he could get used to laughing. 

He wasn’t quite sure who started the kissing as they made it to the Bentley, but he was all too happy to find the two of them tangled up against the door making out like a pair of human teenagers who’d managed to escape their parent’s watchful eye for the night. 

He reached up to cradle Aziraphale’s face, and felt Aziraphale’s hands cover his. It was like, well. Like eating the freshest apple that had ever existed. He couldn’t keep himself from taking bite after bite, and god, Zira was so willing. 

Unlike other demons would have (to the degree they were capable), he’d never imagined this moment as a temptation, a coercion. He wanted it to be as sweet as this indeed had turned out to be, Aziraphale’s mouth open and accepting under his, Aziraphale’s body so available to him; Zira hadn’t even bothered trying to hide the bits he often felt insecure about, sprawled against the car and in such wanton disarray with his hair sticking up, his coat open, his tie crooked. 

Crowley made himself stop for a moment, moving away a little despite that being the last thing on earth he wanted to do. He nodded at the door before Aziraphale could ask him what he was about. 

“Get in,” he said, and just saying it out loud made desire sizzle through him. He growled the words, he realized. Before he could worry about having upset Aziraphale, the angel straightened up long enough to do as told and get in, moving back lengthwise on the bench seat. 

Crowley all but pounced on him; it wasn’t like he would allow anyone to see what they were up to and it was easy enough to manipulate the inside of the car to give them enough extra room to be comfortable. 

He bit into the soft flesh of Zira’s throat, earning him a sharp breath and a squirm that made animal want go through every part of him. 

“Sorry angel, I’d rather do this the human way but…”

One snap of his fingers and the both of them were nude as a Roman fresco, their clothes tucked away Elsewhere; Crowley wouldn’t want to risk Aziraphale’s wrath by forever doing away with that dreadful waistcoat. Well, that and the feather he’d strung around his neck on a gold chain since he and Aziraphale had managed to create their own personal Eden. Sometimes it burned him through his clothes. He couldn’t say he minded. 

Aziraphale’s fingers tangled in his hair and he barely had time to be surprised. Zira tugged hard and drew him in for a kiss that would have put Zira right back in Heaven’s hot seat if they hadn’t secured some private time for themselves via those stupid trials, such as they were. The rough pulling made him instantly hard, rutting against Zira’s cock. 

He broke the kiss if only because he wanted to explore more, still more, dipping his head to lick along the line of Zira’s jaw, to leave a trail of bites and kisses down Zira’s neck and shoulder. He could feel the snake under his skin writhe, demand freedom, though he denied it its wants. For now. 

Zira’s hands dropped to his hips, then his ass, squeezing hard enough that Crowley knew he’d have little fingertip bruises later. He wouldn’t have imagined Zira to be this forward, but it was not by any means unwelcome. 

“Let me have this,” Crowley said, reaching between them to wrap Zira’s cock in an insistent grip. It was heavy and hard in his hand. It excited him so he almost missed Zira's response. 

“Any way you’d like, my dear,” Zira said, and Crowley caught sight of his face in the darkness; Somebody’s sake, would Heaven and Hell be so harsh on the two of them if they could see Zira at a moment of pleasure? An angel in a haze of passion was fucking ineffable indeed. What words could ever capture it? 

Suffice to say, Zira experienced sexual enjoyment the way he enjoyed releasing his wings after too long folded up and away, the way he enjoyed petit fors and expensive wine, but turned up to eleven. It was utter _bliss_ , that’s what it was. Just being near it would have made Crowley feel all but Saved. Being the _cause_ of it?

He reached off to his right and down, fingers brushing the tartan biscuit tin Zira kept in the Bentley. Next to it, he found a bottle of lube simply because he wanted it to be there. He didn’t really need it, but it would make what he had in mind easier and it might last longer, too. Once he got on Zira’s cock he wasn’t going to get off it again until he absolutely had to. 

Coating Zira’s cock in lube earned him a real moan, Zira with his eyes closed, pressing his shoulders into the leather seat and lifting his hips, his hair a right mess of sweat-damp curls and ringlets. His legs were as spread as they could be in the tight space. Crowley ran his slick hands over Zira’s plush inner thighs, his soft stomach, his hips as welcoming as a featherbed. 

When he straddled Zira and sunk down on that thick cock, it was his turn to moan. He wondered if Zira knew how big it was, if he’d done it on purpose, or if he’d just been messing about and trying different things until he found the one that seemed to fit the rest of him best. 

“Oh fuck,” he all but snarled, hunching over Zira's entrancing, soft form, “you trying to kill me, Zira?”

Zira had the audacity to smirk at him. 

“Too much?” The damn angel said, in a very unangelic way. 

“Shut up,” Crowley said, though the words were strained as he took another couple of inches. It was fleshy and slick and so very human, like the first time, this act that made him feel all but split in two. Someone’s sake, humans had gotten at least some things very, very right. 

His whole body tightened up to the point where he couldn’t move, but a few deep breaths and he calmed enough to take the full length of Zira’s cock. Zira looked at him with utter adoration and raked short, blunt fingernails through his hair and down his sides. Crowley could feel Zira holding back even as he left vivid red welts behind on Crowley’s pale skin, the tension in his body as he forced himself to hold still. 

“You can fuck me as hard as you want,” Crowley prompted. “You aren’t going to hurt me.” 

To prove his point he started to move, squeezing the base of Zira’s cock. He pulled up and off only to settle back down again, drawing out the moment to where it almost felt cruel to them both. It was no effort at all for Zira to match him, his expression an enchanting blur of vulgarity and beatitude. 

_Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for…righteousness, for they shall be satisfied._

He couldn’t stop laughing after that, and Zira put on his best aggravated expression. The effect was rather ruined in the same moment by a hitching breath, caught in Zira’s chest as the two of them tried to all but share bodies like they had so recently. Even with that it felt like he’d never be close enough, and by Zira’s demeanor it was clear the feeling was mutual. 

“What’s so _fucking_ funny?” Zira muttered, one of those big hands reaching up to tighten on the back of Crowley’s neck. Crowley was never really prepared for Zira to curse, and it made his eyes go wide just as much as the commanding touch. “You terrible serpent.” 

So Crowley told him, much to Zira’s exasperation. 

“Hardly righteousness,” Zira said, and it would have come out prim as he often was if he weren’t balls deep in Crowley at the moment. Sort of spoiled the effect, Crowley thought with a kind of unholy glee. “Wouldn’t that be dreadfully boring?” 

Crowley laughed again, this time a breathy thing between pleasure and pain. It hurt to take all of Zira, both because of anatomical realities and because even an angel’s precome could burn you, if you happened to be a demon. 

_And a slutty insatiable one at that,_ he thought, without an iota of shame. 

He cradled Zira’s face, digging his knee into the seat, riding Zira’s cock like his eternal life depended on it. Zira reached up to return the caress, drawing him down enough that Zira could return the bite from earlier, too. It was shy, unsure, but deep enough that he almost came immediately. Zira mouthed at the snake tattoo curled up under his ear, and _that_ was more than enough; the orgasm tore through him such that all he could do was weep silent tears. 

Crowley had to close his eyes; Zira had dragged his fingers through the come on his chest, licking it daintily off his fingers as if he’d happened to get whipped cream on them after a particularly indulgent dessert. Regardless of having just come, that visual made Crowley want to do it again right then. 

“Doesn’t that burn?” 

Crowley couldn’t help but ask. 

“It does,” Zira said, his face transforming into an expression of cat-like enjoyment, the same as when he’d indulged in liquor that warmed him all the way down, or that cheesecake they made in the bakery down the street where they used raw ginger instead of candied. It bit you just as much as you bit into it. 

Crowley felt sure that his own expression was one of complete shock; all Zira’s desperate attempts at staying holy and above reproach! Give him five minutes of freedom and he was ready to indulge his worst desires. Repeatedly and with feeling. 

For Somebody’s sake, it was intoxicating. 

Zira wasn’t about to let him go, either. One of Zira’s arms went tight around his middle, and the other hand dropped to his sensitive cock, squeezing mercilessly. Every thrust buried Zira’s cock in him to the absolute limit; he’d never felt so used. Used and _happy_ about it. 

It wasn’t in contrast to the loving light in Zira’s glowing eyes; it was all part of the same emotion. At least between them, it was. He let himself indulge, realizing that Hell was done keeping tabs on him. He took the fucking the way he’d always desired, taking the cue from Zira and sinking down to meet every thrust until his toes were curling with every movement, and every point of contact between their bodies made him nearly weep all over again. 

He saw stars, he realized, the silly human saying more than true. The ones he’d made, the astral dust at the edge of the universe that had coated his fingers, given endless depth to his wings and hair. He couldn’t help but remember Death’s wings, the lights that had glimmered therein. Those lights were souls, he felt sure, but they were also galaxies of incomprehensible brightness; he remembered what it had been to stand beside that kind of light. 

“You look as though you’re gazing at the moon,” Zira said, voice a soft, secret thing. 

Crowley smiled, feeling as drunk as he had after a good three bottles of Musigny gran Cru, downed over the course of a lazy afternoon in the backroom of A.Z. Fell & Co. Another orgasm was building in him and he could feel Zira coming along for the ride this time. 

“I could show you,” Crowley found himself saying. 

“Whatever you see fit to share with me,” Zira said, punctuating his sentence with a moan so filthy mothers covered their children’s ears for miles about without really knowing why, “I am more than ready to accept.” 

He touched Zira’s temple. Their very human, very needy bodies gave the baseline for something rather more celestial as he focused; he dove into Zira’s consciousness with no hesitation. In that moment he remembered none of the pain of Falling, and all of the utter joy that had come with creating the fabric of the universe. Instead of a cruel reminder, the memories became a gift for Zira.

He filled Zira’s mind and soul with what it had been to hover at the very edge of creation. How at the slightest movement of his hands, entire dimensions had taken shape. How when he unfurled his wings the edges trailed a million stars, casting them into the void with every twitch of his feathers, falling into place like gemstones into custom-made settings. 

He didn’t dwell on the black holes that had formed as he Fell, the stars and planets that had overloaded and exploded as he immolated. 

No. Instead he showed Zira the moon. 

The way he’d breathed it into being on his open palms, coaxed it into a vague shape, like cotton candy whipping up its strands and sticking to itself. Shouldn’t the humans have something sweet to gaze upon, to remind them of the love their Creator had afforded them? Something as beautiful as he could think to make it? 

Zira made a helpless sound, but before Crowley could worry he’d shared too much a flood of awe came through. This time they came at the same moment, too, physical pleasure and ethereal tangling inextricably together. 

“Raphael,” Zira said in the most reverential tone he’d ever heard his angel use. He supposed there was no hiding it now, who he used to be. “Crowley. I love you. God, I adore you.”

* * *

Later, on the Ritz lawn, the two of them stood smoking. 

Clothed again, it should be mentioned, and waving off any human attention easy as breathing with the powers that hadn't been stripped away after all. Crowley wondered what he could get away with now, his ability to work miracles and curses unaffected and Heaven and Hell turning a careful blind eye. 

Zira blew rings, his old man fags (B&H Blue) filling the night air with thick, fragrant smoke. Crowley, of course, preferred to roll his own, taking deep lungfuls as he stood there in a haze of contentment. He got a thrill out of standing on the perfect manicured grass, too, and he couldn’t help but notice that Zira hadn’t protested their choice of location, either. 

“You were an archangel. No, an Archangel,” Zira said out of nowhere, making Crowley cough and choke in surprise. He wiped the tears from his eyes and got himself under control, though it might have taken a minor miracle or two. 

“Tch, I’m so sorry,”

Zira added, looking rather hangdog and annoyed with himself. Crowley put his fag out on his wrist; human-made fire could hardly hurt him unless there was a great wacking lot of it. He crossed to Zira and took Zira’s free hand. 

“It’s all right. Yes, I was.”

Arrows of fear and self-loathing cut through his spine. Would Zira only see him through that lens now? Always wishing the Fall hadn’t come to pass? Hating that he had to settle for a demon instead of an Archangel, who could by definition never be forgiven? 

Thankfully for Crowley’s sanity, that is not what happened. In fact, Zira turned towards him to draw him into an embrace. 

“I can’t understand why the Almighty would punish someone as good as you. As special. You know, my dear, I don’t think in all the world’s history there has been or ever will be someone like you again.” 

Crowley wanted to lie down in that praise like it was a bed of wildflowers in a lush field. The angel feather necklace pressed against him as he leaned into Zira’s hug, leaving a reddened imprint on his skin. 

“Some would call that a good thing,” he said, thinking of the or ever will be again part. He hated how unsure and small his voice sounded.

“I will never be one of them,” Zira said without even having to pause. 

That made up his mind. 

“Zira, I have something else to show you.” 

“Anything, my love,” Zira said, watching him with no preconceived notions on what it might be, but perfectly willing to go along with whatever it was. 

Crowley reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled with the set of keys there. They had a generic fob, as keys did when they’d been freshly pressed. They were so new that he felt a little shiver of electricity when he brushed his fingers over them. 

He managed to get the keys free and held them up. Zira’s brows drew together in a look of confusion. 

“And just what are those for?”

“A cottage I bought,” Crowley muttered, only then realizing that it was pretty fucking daft to buy such a big thing as a surprise. “Remember when I wanted all those home and garden magazines?”

“Mm, for the plants, I assumed.” Zira said, still trying to keep his tone light. However, his whole being had turned towards Crowley; Crowley could feel it in a thousand little ways. The white heat behind Zira’s eyes would have been enough, the ethereal angel spreading its wings, gliding and rippling under Zira's corporation. 

“No. For the house part. I wanted it to be just right…” 

“Did you buy this for the both of us?” 

“I…yes. I was, uh. I was studying up, trying to get it just right for you. Make it somewhere you might consider as a home. You know, enough bookshelves. Wine cellar. S’got a big kitchen,” he added, feeling quite ridiculous as he tried to convince his angel to share their lives in yet another intimate fashion. 

“When did you even have time?” 

“A couple of miracles, is all. Found the place awhile back and bypassed all the boring stuff, the usual bids and paperwork and all.” 

Zira’s smile started small, but as the idea settled in he ended up beaming. 

“Of course, of course I will,” Zira said. Crowley had rarely seen such joy. Maybe only when Zira was describing the gavotte, or when he and Zira had gone for crepes in the middle of the French Revolution. Zira caught him up in another hug, and Crowley all but melted into it. “But for tonight, why don’t we take advantage of the hotel? A reservation under our name has just _mysteriously_ been set down in the books.” 

Crowley leaned in to kiss Zira, just like they were a couple of lovestruck newlyweds. 

“Let’s.” 

Crowley hung back for a bare moment, casting a final glance upwards. 

**Only love may save you.**


	4. Learn to Love Humility for it Will Cover all Your Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Zira move into their cottage. Crowley's need to cause trouble leads him into a situation where he's more hero than knave (even if he does put his...unique spin on justice).
> 
> P.S. A03 completely screwed my formatting but I am trying to fix it. Update: should be good now!
> 
> CW for transphobic language and violence.

“So my dear, where is this cottage of ours?”

Aziraphale asked later. Crowley couldn’t say exactly how much later; his perception of time felt odd, now that he was his own creature. His life could no longer be divided into reports made Downstairs, mischief and taking credit for great evils even he with his unique imagination couldn't have dreamed up in a million years.

“Hmm?” He said, not understanding at first. He’d dozed off on the couch in A. Z. Fell and Co’s backroom, not at all an unusual state of affairs. He’d started to turn into a snake in his sleep, legs narrowing to a tail round about his calves. Exasperated, he willed himself  firmly  into his human shape.

“Well I was  just  wondering, you see,” Aziraphale told him, setting the book he’d been reading aside on his desk.  Another normal, common occurrence: Aziraphale in his cozy corner across from the couch, absorbing whatever monument to human creativity had caught his attention this time . “Because…I have had the strangest feeling since Adam averted our doom.”

Crowley’s heart spasmed and he woke up in an instant, scrambling to sit up.  He heard hesitance, and the halting way Aziraphale’s words chose to come out of his mouth at times of stress or when he worried that what he had to say wouldn’t  be understood .

The way he spoke to Gabriel, Crowley imagined.

“Having doubts, angel?” Crowley said, trying to put it across as at least neutral even though his stomach had tied into a painful knot.  Sometimes it was frustrating how well Zira knew him; Zira’s eyes flickered as if acknowledging the unsaid, as if Crowley had spoken it aloud.

“Oh no no,” Aziraphale said, hurrying to reassure him and leaning forward in his chair a bit. Trying to make Crowley feel comfortable and reassured. It worked. Crowley’s tangled up emotions smoothed out and came together in a harmony he was still trying to grasp. Demons as a general rule do not achieve states of bliss. “Not at all. Only, I’ve been thinking.  If we’re on our own side now and that side  necessarily  includes earth and its inhabitants,  maybe  it’s time for us to care more  properly  for those mortals who have come into our lives.”

“Zira,” Crowley choked out. Then it was he who was tongue-tied, and Zira watched him, patient. The angel tended to be patient right up until he wasn't. “They live such small lives. So short. Can you imagine getting attached to Anathema or Adam? What do they have, thirty years? Sixty?”

“I know,” Zira said, his soft tone not doing much to hide his inner turmoil. “I know.  It’s so rare that an angel or a demon is  truly  destroyed…I don’t think we know how to cope with grief like what you are describing  . But  surely…”

Zira started, the way he did when he felt passionate about something that he was afraid to voice. Crowley didn’t take it  personally . He’d had a taste of how the angels treated Zira, and he could well imagine why Zira had so many tics and idiosyncrasies.

“But  surely  ,” Zira repeated. He paused to take a drink of his cocoa as if it were whiskey. “What comes before that is  incomparably  sweet.”

Crowley’s heart stuttered to a stop for a moment, his mind sending him on an express trip back to Eden where he’d never tasted anything more perfect than the first blackberry that had ever grown  .  Or the one time Zira had forgotten their status as hereditary enemies long enough to feed him slices of kiwi fruit as they lounged together in the perfect sun, never too hot, never too distant .

_They my newest creations will need warmth, Raphael, Gabriel. Because though they be partly of the spirit world, their flesh is vulnerable and needy. They will look to your creation to nourish them. Its glow will drive the night-fears from their minds._

“Well…” Crowley said, even though for a moment all he could see was the sun, “you’re in luck then, because it’s in Tadfield.”

Zira lit up like every bulb in the city had flashed on at once, illumination streaming from every window and streetlamp .

“Oh Crowley, is it? Is it  really ?” 

* * *

Crowley had chosen a cottage on the very outskirts of Tadfield. He didn't want to live so  close  to the little village that it stifled him . He expected that Zira wouldn’t have minded, but he wanted some space. He wasn’t at all sure how to approach building some kind of lasting friendship with humans, or how to interact in their spaces for that matter. 

_What do humans say? Baby steps._

As it was, their cottage and the land surrounding it were some miles away, enough so they wouldn’t have to explain their presence to the neighborhood watch . Still, it was close enough that visiting humans wouldn’t have too much trouble getting there. He could see the chimneys of Tadfield from the patio.

The place was as close to Otmoor Lake and Reserve as he could get without agitating a bunch of wet people with clipboards wearing National Parks jackets  .  He went strolling through the acreage to take advantage of the breeze off the water  .  He smiled at the abandoned garden beds and the animal paddock, unoccupied at the moment but so full of potential.

He saw a heron out near the water, standing one-legged in the peat. He paused, hands in his pockets, the chilly wind stirring his hair. A whole flock of cormorants took wing. Their glossy black feathers stood out in sharp relief against the grey sky.

_You did well, Crowley_ , he thought, allowing him this moment of self-love. _T_ _his place is perfect._

* * *

Zira thought so too, when he came by later that day to look at the place Crowley had been so bold to buy for them both.  Crowley took his hand, a delicious thrill of _we’re not supposed to do this_ suffusing him with the kind of warmth only defiance and mischievous deeds could conjure.

Of course, he’d worried Zira would hate the place.  But the second Zira saw the pale pink exterior, the thatched roofs, the craftsman-style entrance heavy with hanging flower baskets, he’d drawn in an audible gasp of pure delight . Crowley chuckled when Zira all but squeezed his hand to bits in excitement.

“Careful there, angel. I’m a demon, but we _do_ bruise.”

“  Dreadfully  sorry, my dear,” Zira said, in that pure angelic tone that tended to have a completely _un_ angelic effect on Crowley’s emotions and body, the latter of which had decided it would play by its own rules whether Crowley liked it or not .

Zira babbled on, about the nest of grackels in the thatch above the front door, about the exposed stone and cream-colored walls as they walked in, everything  . Everything was “darling” or “perfect” or “did you  really  think of all this?”

The answer, of course, was yes.  He wasn’t about to tell Zira about how he’d agonized over wallpaper and what art to hang on the walls like an old lady worried about what visiting family might think  . The sitting room? Done in white wallpaper with a subtle golden shimmer on the farthest wall from the door.  He’d let himself get away with Hieronymus Bosch’s famous triptych; if he and Zira were going to piss all over Heaven and Hell he at least would like a reminder . He leered at the plump toad, clasped in the hands of a priestess.

_Fuck you, Hastur._

The rest of the spacious room had light camel-colored paint on the walls, not an edge out of place.  He’d growled and snapped at the contractors enough that by the time the job  was done  , they were about as terrified as his plants and as afraid of making the tiniest mistake.

Stonework formed the fireplace and the mantle, and he’d finished off the room with a set of furniture almost identical to the old couch at the bookshop. He had to admit he'd miss that ratty couch, so he'd reproduced it as best he could.

He took Zira through every room in the place - he’d paid the kind of attention he’d shown the sitting room to every detail throughout - babbling about all the facts he knew  concerning  their home, how he’d chosen this or that, what he imagined for their lives together here.

He felt an itch of discomfort at the roof of his mouth, as if the words didn’t appreciate  being forced  out and made audible.

_Imagine if Beezlebub could see me right now._

The thought made a shiver of unease wrap tight around his neck. He did sound ridiculous, didn't he? A demon of all things, going on and on about silverware and counterpanes?  But Zira never once showed a hint of irritation, seeming to love Crowley’s patter as much as Crowley loved indulging in it.

It wasn't even the angelic  equivalent  of laughing  politely  at a bad joke; Zira gasped and cooed and urged him on at all the right points, leaning in so as not to miss a single word . Crowley leaned into him in return as they walked together, basking in Zira’s Grace.

Lately he seemed to derive no ill effects from being so intertwined with Zira’s nature, though Zira's kisses still burned like cinnamon and cayenne, traces of bitter lime that Crowley chased, trying to taste it all . Zira might be a glutton, but so was he in his way.

_ Maybe  we  really  are immune _ , he thought as he brought Zira to the kitchen. _To each other, at least._

He’d saved the kitchen for last.  Zira had always enjoyed trying to do things the humans did, even if he lacked the needed creativity to make something well  . But  maybe  that was changing.  Zira had always had the spark, at least, and had absorbed so many human stories that Crowley felt Zira had the right seeds in hand.

_Now just  to water them  properly  . Give them enough light. Enough shade _

Zira all but floated around the space, running his hands over the butcher’s block, the granite countertops, the mismatched,  brightly  colored crockery  . The kitchen had top of the line appliances, thank Satan.  He had his say in things too, and one of those things had been staving off Zira’s desire to make everything about two hundred years out of date  . He had to have chrome and sleek lines _somewhere_ here.

Zira turned to face him, leaning against the counter. He looked so serious that Crowley almost asked him what was wrong, what could be the matter.

“Have I told you lately that I  absolutely  adore you?” Zira said, quiet but full of intensity that made his eyes spark silver. “Every moment with you is a joy. I can’t believe you thought up all this. I don’t know how to tell you the myriad ways I appreciate your thoughtfulness and kindness. It’s so beautiful, Crowley. Every room is perfect.”

Once, Crowley had threatened Zira for calling him kind. Now, he stood there in the doorway like a fool, shocked into silence and trembling. He coughed, trying to get his words flowing again. He shook his head,  desperately  trying not to break down right there. The prophecy felt very far away then, a silly trifle he could afford to dismiss. Dread that he banished as  simply  as flicking a light switch.

He made his feet move, though he could  barely  feel them. He took Zira’s hands, so  fastidiously  manicured and soft to the touch.

“The least I could do, angel.”

“Hardly! All this work - “

“Figure you deserve it for putting up with a demon,” Crowley said, trying to make it a joke and failing  miserably  .  He studied the floor, mortified, but Zira tipped his head up, questing fingertips under his chin, so they could look eye to eye.

“Being with you,” Zira said, punctuating every other word with a kiss, “is not a _chore,_ my dear.” 

* * *

Crowley paused where he was up on the rooftops of Soho. The desire and need to cause mischief had overtaken him, finally.  Zira felt the need to do blessings and miracles, and he by contrast felt the need to cause chaos and to evoke free will from the humans he tormented  .  Thankfully  his angel let him out of the house without much protest.  He had things to do at the house and Crowley had left him going through all the kitchen items and humming a jaunty tune from somewhere in the 1500s.

_Someone_ had to work wiles, after all. He wasn't obligated to do so anymore, but sometimes the restlessness got so bad he had to find a way to release it.

But something else had caught his eye.  Below him, a nigh-formless figure huddled against the darkened shop window  . He wasn’t as good a lurker as Hastur,  maybe  , but he managed. Four? Five?  humans advanced and Crowley didn’t need his demonic senses to realize they had bad intentions.

He leapt, working his way to the street as lithe as a cheetah coming down from its perch in an acacia tree. When he called on his demonic essence, it afforded him certain benefits. Being nimble was one of those.

One of the other benefits was that he could smell the fear on the intended victim, and feel the smug hostility rolling off this impromptu gang of idiots . The stink and sizzle of Vices.

He waited on the street level rooftop to the right.  It was a bakery that he and Zira had been to many times on account of it being so close to the bookshop, eating huge slices of red velvet cake and downing coffees so strong it made the barista  noticeably  nervous to pull that many shots.

“Leave me alone,” the person currently in danger for her life said. He could see her much better now. Bless it, she was  just  a child. She couldn’t be any older than eleven or twelve. She was wearing a dress that had seen better days, a long, dark-colored one that made her look far too serious for her age.  It reminded him of that Winchester woman, the one who had withered away in her mansion full of secret doors that opened on nothing and staircases that didn’t go anywhere.

Her long brown hair hung in her eyes, and she had the rumpled look of someone who had slept in her clothes.

“No way tranny,” one of the gang said. They all looked the same to Crowley. Dumb, mean white guys, all with the same buzzcut, reeking of body spray and cheap fags.  They were out on the hunt for someone smaller than them they could push around, for no good reason except they were dullards and only understood and enjoyed violence . Didn’t get enough pussy at the clubs, so they turned to letting out their frustration in this manner instead.

He loved humanity, but sometimes they tested that fact right to the bloody limit.

The girl sighed, weary. Too weary for a child.

“Look, the shelter wouldn’t let me in. Not enough beds. I don’t want to be out here either. So let’s go our separate ways — “

The man closest to her grabbed her around the throat, killing the sentence before she could finish it. Crowley snapped off a few curses. The guy screamed when his knockoff Burberry chav coat ignited. He let the girl go and stumbled back, trying to pat out the flames. It didn’t take a genius to notice this arsehole thought more of that shitty coat than human life.

One of the idiots in the back started wailing as all his worst nightmares started to play on a loop before his mind’s eye. Now this, Crowley could get used to. He lapped up the fear as he dropped to the street in a crouch, letting it empower him all the more.

Bloodlust had started to take him over, the demonic part of him that wanted to brutalize, to do real evil. He leapt and shifted as he did, uncoiling faster than the eye could follow. He struck at the one who had dared touch a child. The bones in the thug’s arm crunched as Crowley latched on, venom pumping through his fangs.  Normally  he wasn’t the sort to kill like this, but very rarely the situation called for it.

This was one of them.

The girl didn’t shriek in terror like he thought she would.

The others did run, and his chosen prey folded to his knees as the venom took hold.  Crowley could  modify  that venom to an extent - he’d even discovered it was possible to make it pleasurable - but this time he let the full force turn the idiot’s brain to jelly . By the time the prey had collapsed to the pavement, it was dead.

He changed again, shaking off his snake-skin as if he were shaking off water droplets. He turned, intending to curse the memory out of the poor kid’s mind.

Instead, she stood there watching him. Hells, her eyes weren’t even wide.

“What are you?” She asked in a measured, high-timbre voice. There was something odd about it, like it was an affectation. She stood with a kind of injured pride, a brittle dignity that shouldn’t have belonged to an eleven year old child.

“I’m a demon,” he said, knowing he could erase this from her memory if needed. “You didn’t run. Didn’t even scream.

“If you’d ever met my nanny,” the girl said, “you’d understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the triptych is indeed the Temptation of St. Anthony. I wanted it to be the Garden of Eden but I think that's hung up in the bedroom instead. Bosch is a real favorite of mine so I was happy to work it in like this! I think Crowley can have a really fucked up sense of humor.


	5. We Are Who We Know Ourselves to Be

"We are not what other people say we are. We are who we know ourselves to be, and we are what we love."

\-- Laverne Cox

* * *

_“Warlock?”_ Crowley blurted.  He could hardly believe that the universe had brought him and his former charge together in this manner  . Moments like these made him,  perversely  , believe in some ineffable plan.  A plan that existed to amuse God, no matter the consequences for the little chess pieces she moved about  however  she wished.

_Fuck you,_ he thought, bitter as the first cup of coffee after waking from fitful sleep. He hoped that went right to God’s direct line.

_“Wendy,”_ the child spat at him.

He realized what he’d done and frowned.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  He didn’t know a lot about human sexualities and genders (other than finding them endlessly fascinating), but he did know that if someone changed their name you  were meant  to use what they’d given themselves. Hells, he’d changed _his_ name and it rankled every time someone said  Crawly  instead of Crowley. “I’m  just  surprised.”

Massive understatement.  Not to mention they were holding this conversation whilst standing over a fresh corpse.

“I ran away…wait. How do you know my dead name?” She asked, peering up at him with suspicion in her dark gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her long black sleeves made her look like a nun about to slap his hand with a ruler. “Wait.”

Wendy said again before Crowley could come up with an answer. He stood there, dumb, as Wendy stepped closer. After a moment’s study she said,

_“Nanny Astoreth?”_

“Yeah kid,” Crowley confessed, “it’s me.” 

* * *

Aziraphale stood in the middle of one of the garden plots near his and Crowley’s new home. He relished the moonlight washing over him as he gazed upwards at the midnight sky. Stars glinted and glimmered there, so breathtaking out in the country. Stars his beloved Crowley had breathed into being.  He could well imagine Crowley covered in astral dust, his massive wings forming the universe with each beat of their powerful span.

Perhaps  Crowley worried that now he would only see Raphael, and wish for the Archangel instead of the demon.  But the two were inextricable, intertwined in Aziraphale’s thoughts and in his heart besides; all aspects of the being he adored above all others. The god of his idolatry,  perhaps  even above the Lord Herself.

The thought was a blasphemous one.  Before the Apocanot, the Apocawasn’t, the Armageddin’t, he would have cowered in fear at such foolishness. He would have waited, miserable, for his feathers to go from pure white to coal black as punishment for his rebellion. Now? He felt he would stand straight even in front of God Herself, should she choose to descend and scold him.

What could be so wrong with loving? He'd waited long enough. 

It was no effort at all, with such thoughts in his mind, to draw flowers and plants from the earth at his feet. The camelias came first, heart’s-red, angel-feather white.  The irises, pushing up from the earth. They unfolded their Tyrian-purple dresses like a cluster of Phoenician noblewomen heading to a  hotly  anticipated party.  He remembered such gatherings, the gay laughter of the young warriors, the way the women would drink too much wine and quote Sappho to one another in dark corners.

He favored things of that nature, humans laughing and loving one another.

He was coaxing lily-of-the-valley into being when he heard voices.

“You thought I was the _antichrist?”_

“Well yes,” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale could hardly mistake his voice. “We did our best.”

“You left! You didn’t even say goodbye!”

“That’s not true. Besides, we were your tutors as well. Couldn’t exactly have all four of us in the same room now could we?”

“What?” The girl screeched.  Aziraphale turned towards them, a little woozy from shifting his energy from the flowers to the scene now before him.  Crowley stood there as lovely as ever, looking as though he were half-shade thanks to his dark clothes against the night. His fiery hair stood out, moreso because he also didn’t have sunglasses on for once. His arresting yellow eyes burned in the darkness.

A girl stood beside his love, a girl who was still a young child. He wasn’t exactly practiced at guessing human ages, but this was easy enough to see. He compared her to Pepper and found many similarities in the fullness of her face and the cant of her eyes.

She had long brown hair with a slight wave, and blue eyes like a juvenile wolf. She wore a dress of black lace down to her booted feet. She looked like Crowley’s shadow, a shadow of a shadow. She had slept in her clothes for at least a couple of nights, and her footwear had worn patches on the heel and toes. The ribbon in her hair looked as if it had been scavenged, ragged at the edges. Aziraphale could feel the hunger and fear radiating from her, and he thought of the guttersnipes common in certain eras. Crowley could feel her emotions too, he was sure, but they felt negative emotions for different reasons. He did because he wanted to go and help. It was part of his nature.

He thought more of Crowley's senses. Crowley's nature was to do evil, yet he'd turned away from that because he'd wanted to. Aziraphale didn't think himself half so brave as that. 

He opened his mouth to say her name, but Crowley beat him to it.

“This is Wendy,” he said, his protective hand on her shoulder. “You want to tell him?”

“Used to be Warlock,” Wendy mumbled, looking at the ground. She looked up then, sharp as a an embroidery needle. “…Brother Francis?”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, caught out. As for Wendy’s name change, he hadn’t spent hundreds of years in Soho without picking up on -  shall  we say - the culture. Transgender people were an essential part of that. He'd given safe harbor to more than one of them, over the years. His bookshop had more than one function.

Furthermore, he knew many others in the community considered him gay. He embraced it. It was, after living amongst humans for so long, close enough. Heaven knows, he used to spend time at the Caravan. He'd had pints at the Admiral Duncan. To say nothing of the 100 Guineas Club. He'd have to tell Crowley about 'Joanna' sometime,  just  for the pleasure of seeing Crowley blush.

“Wendy is a lovely name." He soothed. "Tell me, how did you choose it?”

* * *

Aziraphale had already guided Wendy into the house.  Crowley listened to him talk in an encouraging, gentle tone about Peter Pan.

"Wendy is the protagonist, you know," he said, to the scared little girl already pulled inexorably into Zira's kindly orbit. "Not Peter." 

Crowley watched from the front yard.  He meant to follow, but the scent of flowers guided him to the plot of land Zira had been standing in when he and Wendy had showed up.

Zira had looked both eerie and irresistible, bathed in moonlight. The wan glow had drawn out the celestial silver in his eyes, and limned him in light as though it were embracing him.  A light far gentler than that wielded by the other angels, the ones who had commanded Zira to walk into hellfire without blinking.

Crowley crouched down to inspect the flowers, trying not to think about the burning bookshop.  He could feel angelic magic on them like a dusting of purest snow, and despite himself his heart throbbed with emotion. Did Zira know the meanings of these flowers?  Everything from "you complete me" to "all my dreams have come true", the lilies and irises and camellias a love letter unto themselves. He found himself trembling, running his fingers over the blooms.

Though he wouldn’t admit it to Aziraphale, the state of the plants baffled him. They hadn’t  been yelled  at once and yet here they were, so perfect, so redolent of natural perfume and rich soil. How? Yes, they'd been called forth by ethereal forces, but still. 

“Crowley!” Zira called from the foyer. “Come in, my dear. Let’s all have some tea together,  shall  we?  I believe  Miss Wendy has quite a few questions on her mind.”

_Yes dear._

He thought, a response he was sure Newt used every day with Anathema, at least once. The humans called it  being whipped, but Crowley could think of far worse things to be. He stood, stretched, and followed Zira and Wendy inside. 

* * *

Wendy sat with her hands tight on a mug of builder’s tea, staring into its depths though she made no move to drink it. Crowley joined her at the formica table in the breakfast nook.  The window overlooking the wetlands stood open, a brisk breeze filling the cottage with the scent of life-giving water. The cry of curlews sounded in the distance as they took wing.

Aziraphale came over last, bearing a sharing plate of fussy little cakes.  Crowley noted the miniature Victoria sandwiches and started to salivate; he might not enjoy eating much, but he did have his weaknesses. Zira set the plate in the center of the table, then brought tea for himself and coffee for Crowley.

“So what are you?” Wendy asked point blank, her narrowed eyes boring holes into Zira. “Crowley said he’s a demon. So what are you?”

Crowley caught Zira’s gaze and shrugged. What was he going to say, after murdering a man in front of her? As a snake? Oh  terribly  sorry ma’am, I do believe you were hallucinating? Let me take you to a hospital? He could have cursed her to that effect, but he’d been too busy  being shocked by her blasé attitude.

“I am an angel,” Zira said.

Wendy snorted.

“No you’re not.”

Crowley studied her as she reacted. She reminded him of a feral cat, a badger who’d tangled with a hound, her wounds still fresh.

On a normal night Zira wouldn’t have risen to bait such as that. This time, Crowley had to scoot his chair forward in a hurry when Zira’s wings popped out. They filled the nook, their pearlescent, heavenly aura all but blinding him. He couldn’t look away, transfixed.

Wendy sat with her mouth gaping open in utter shock. Humans as a rule did not encounter the supernatural in so direct a way. Yet here Wendy was, as immersed in it as if she were supernatural herself. In twenty four hours she’d seen him turn into a snake, and now she'd seen an honest to god angel’s wings.

Zira folded said wings and willed them back into the ethereal plane. The holy aura diminished until he looked like a bookseller again, one who hadn't updated his wardrobe in about a hundred years. He had a sheepish blush on his cheeks, and he fidgeted with his tea cup.

O…kay,” Wendy said, shaking, “ I believe  you.”

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Zira said, frowning.  Crowley took the Victoria sandwhich from Zira when he passed it over on a dessert plate, without even having to look at either the pudding or Crowley himself. He had most of Crowley's habits memorized, a fact Crowley was grateful for as he took a huge bite of sponge and jam. 

“Cake?” Zira said to Wendy.

Wendy’s eyebrows went up into her hair, but Crowley could see the moment she realized how hungry she was.  Her gaze sharpened, and she looked composed of angles so crisp and fragile it reminded him of origami, a  delicately  folded crane or a  lovingly  made rose.  He took a sip of his coffee, watching her demolish several cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, two raspberry napoleons, and a peach-passionfruit scone. Zira kept her cup full of sweetened tea and she drank three servings of it in quick succession.

“Well, you’ll stay with us of course,” Zira said once she'd slowed down, glancing over at him for confirmation.

“Yeah." Crowley agreed. "We have some spare rooms. How’d you get away from your parents anyway?”

Wendy sighed and sat back from the table, finally, it seemed, full.

“They were going back to America and I knew if that happened I’d never get free of them. They don’t accept that I’m transgender. I don’t know. Ever since that day in the desert, they’ve been even worse than usual.”

Crowley tensed. He knew what must have happened.  Hastur would have murdered them all once he realized Wendy was the wrong child, but other forces of Hell would have seen the opportunity to draw out the suffering. Had they found that kernel of hate in Harriet and Thaddeus? Fanned it to a flame, and hoped it would consume Wendy the way the angels had wanted to burn Zira?

“I can pay you,” Wendy continued, fishing some crumpled fifty pound notes from a pocket in her dress.

Zira looked affronted at the very suggestion, pursing his lips and all but recoiling from the sight of money.

“Absolutely  not,” Zira said. “You will do no such thing. This house is yours as much as it is ours.”

Crowley could see the moment the words struck Wendy with their sheer tenderness. It was as if a wild swan had come over to offer itself to her as a pet. Her eyes welled up with tears of weary gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered, disconcerted by the kindness. Crowley’s chest ached, watching her suffer. Go - Satan - _S_ _omeone’s_ sake, when had he developed empathy? What would Hell do to him if they knew? He suppressed a shudder. But then, a spike of defiance rammed its way between his ribs and filled his being with molten silver. He'd been defying them from the very beginning. Might as well keep going. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying not to drum his fingers on the tabletop. The apology rankled, but it had to be made so he forced it out. “I’m sorry, Wendy. We tried our best but we’re shit at human things and I know us lying to you hurt you. But…can we make it up now? Or try, at least?”

Wendy actually _smiled._ Thank Someone she still could. 

“Sure,” she said, tremulous but still so willing to trust. He felt about two inches tall in the face of that smile. Before, she’d been a project. Now, she was so completely and utterly human. Vulnerabe, hurting, on her own.

Disowned.

“Come on, you can pick your room,” Crowley said, standing. Zira got up too, clearing the dishes and choosing to do them by hand instead of miracling them clean. He’d taken to little human things like that, as if he were practicing fitting in.

Wendy joined him in the hallway and they went down to the empty rooms. She poked her head into the one on the left, the one with powder-blue walls. She took in the other choice, where he’d done the walls in butter-yellow.

“This one,” Wendy said, walking in and standing in the middle of the yellow room. Crowley followed her. This room still stood empty, so Zira could give his input on what he wanted to make out of it.

“Okay. So, what do you want it to look like?”

“Oh. Well…I love lace, and dark colors. I don’t know, I don’t have much say in anything at home.”

“Hm.” He took in Wendy’s old fashioned dress, her ragged yet precisely tied hair ribbon, her costume jewelry. After so much work on the cottage, it was nothing to translate all that into a furnished room. He snapped his fingers, and in a blink the whole place had undergone a makeover. Wendy, speechless, turned in a slow circle to take everything in.

Her big bed had a charcoal-grey comforter with a lace overlay, the shape of stylized flowers and birds there in cutwork for the keen of eye to enjoy. The velvet headboard was in a lighter blue, and the blanket folded, neat, at the foot had a heron pattern on it. Above the bed hung a stylized picture of birds taking flight.

The furniture had a touch of the baroque about it, enough of it black to give the room a modern Gothic touch. Everything she might need, or so he hoped.  He’d thought of a desk, a dresser, bedside table…he didn’t think he had missed anything, though he was no expert on what humans liked or required for a happy existence.

_Sometimes it feels good to have an imagination._

Wendy shook her head in disbelief.

“You…you just made that! Out of nothing!” She flung her arms wide as if to embrace the room itself in its entirety. Crowley could sense her excitement and he felt a moment of satisfaction that he’d gotten it all so right. “Thank you!”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, though he thought they both knew it was faux grumpiness.

Wendy giggled and let her arms fall at her sides, turning to look at him.

“I missed you,” she said. “Can I…can I hug you?”

He thought it over. Usually the only person who dared touch him in any way was Zira. But he’d killed for this girl. And as of now she was,  technically, all but their adopted daughter.

“Sure you can,” he said. She came over and grabbed him around the waist, pillowing her head on his chest. For a moment he stood stiff and awkward, not sure what to do. But then he returned it and something in him changed.

_I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you._

“You’re welcome.”


	6. In the Beginning was the Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira and Crowley push the bounds of their relationship more and more. Now that no one's watching, it's time to indulge. Meanwhile, five children get a look at the future. It's brighter for some of them than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am heckin proud of this chapter, y'all. I hope you love it too. I appreciate all of you so much.

Insane, inside the danger gets me high  
Can't help myself got secrets I cant tell  
I love the smell of gasoline  
I light the match to taste the heat  
I've always liked to play with fire

-Sam Tinnesz

* * *

Crowley walked back downstairs only to find Zira waiting for him with a plate of iced biscuits and a mug of cocoa. Crowley had caught him coming out of the kitchen, and he took a moment to set down the plate and the cup on the coffee table. He already looked as if he belonged in the cottage, as if they’d lived here for an era. His wheat-colored trousers and white button-down shirt only added to the image. The white-gold wallpaper caught the low lights in his hair.

_He looks…comfortable._

“Everything all right, my dear?” 

Zira asked. Crowley noted the top buttons on Zira’s shirt were undone, and that he’d foregone shoes. 

Crowley descended the rest of the staircase with the poise he remembered relying on when he’d gone - high femme - to the opera or the symphony. Occasionally the urge would come over him still to this day, and his angel, of course, was always only too happy to indulge him. He had some particularly lovely memories of showing off in play houses that hadn’t existed in centuries, hair in curls and a full pout rouged on his mouth. 

They’d have to do it again soon. They could, now. Do it without worrying about who might be looking. He could take Zira’s arm and lean against him in their seats and steal a kiss when the house lights dimmed. 

“For now, yes.” He said, coming over to take Zira’s hands. They were such lovely hands it seemed a shame to miss a chance to hold them. 

The biscuits caught his eye next. 

“Are those heart-shaped?”

Zira laughed, unrepentant about buying perfect decorated biscuits with flooded icing like a dotty old grandmother. 

“I _could_ have bought the ones in the shape of apples, dear, but I restrained myself.”

Crowley shook his head, trying to get back on track. 

“Wendy likes her room. She hugged me, Zira.”

“Ah, she seems quite taken with you,” 

Zira didn’t seem jealous of that, at least. 

“Well, I did kill someone for her.”

“You _what?_ Oh, Crowley.” Zira said, his mouth thinning. It wasn’t judgement, quite, but his angel’s brows drew together in the start of what could end up being a very put out look. 

“He was trying to strangle her at the time,” Crowley said, mildly enough. “And he died quick. Better’n he deserved.” 

Zira squeezed his hands reassuringly, then let them go so he could step in close. Before Crowley could figure out what Zira was about Zira embraced him, then leaned in and murmured, “that was very kind of you, _Anthony.”_

Crowley went weak in the knees instantly, in a way that made him want to scold his body parts for behaving as they liked without consulting him first. How in the fuck did Zira _know?_ Hearing his first name felt perfectly normal, _as long as the person saying it wasn’t Aziraphale._ Crowley could remember every time Zira had called him Anthony, and he’d turned to so much wobbly jelly every time. Even in the church during the Blitz. 

Zira’s blessed hand slipped up the column of his neck before Crowley noticed what was happening. Zira’s touch made him come awake like a dive in a cold pond after a hot sauna; caressing the snake marking on his temple was right up there with calling him bloody Anthony. 

“You act so damn innocent and then you behave like this,” Crowley muttered into the collar of Zira’s shirt, clutching reflexively at Zira’s shoulders. He tried to sound put off, but that was as ridiculous and pathetic as Zira’s magic act. His angel hadn’t bought that shtick from him in — maybe ever. 

“That would depend on your definition of innocent, darling,” Zira informed him, holding him with more strength than was usually obvious, but ever-present within his angel all the same. “I _did_ mean to tell you all about my adventures as Joanna, but perhaps now isn’t the time.”

“ _What?_ You can’t bring up something like that and then wave it off!” 

Crowley protested, pulling back enough to see whether Zira was having him on. 

“I went by a woman’s name at the Hundred Guineas Club. Everyone did.” Zira said as if discussing the weather, kissing him though he knew he must still taste of blood and fear. Zira didn’t seem put off in the least. In fact it almost seemed as if Zira were trying to lick the last drops of venom from his canines. “I didn’t much care for getting involved with anyone, but there was plenty to observe.” 

“Why not?” Crowley asked, his traitorous heart begging for love like a dog on its back legs, pleading for a treat. 

Zira got him out of his jacket in one fluid move; he offered no resistance, too enraptured by Zira’s recounting. The jacket was one of his favorites, with a black on black snake design across the back only visible in certain light. Zira laid it carefully over the arm of the couch and Crowley felt a little pulse of adoration; Zira cared about his things, because Zira cared about _him._

“Why not what?” Zira asked, not unkindly. Zira slipped searching fingers into his hair, making Crowley take longer than normal to answer. 

“Why didn’t you care to be with anyone?”

“Oh you must know, Crowley.”

Crowley closed his eyes, only partially managing to restrain a bone-deep sigh. 

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Well, because they weren’t _you,_ dear.” Crowley could practically taste Zira’s blush, his forked tongue flicking out in an attempt to try and do exactly that. Zira smelled/tasted like shortbread biscuits, dried orange peel, book pages. White musk, and the barest hint of tobacco. Under that was where the real sweetness waited; the heady scent of desire. Possessiveness, sweet and dark as a blackberry bursting apart on a questing tongue. 

Zira tugged him around so he was leant back into Zira’s chest, Zira’s arm tight around his middle. He went without resistance, letting himself be tipped off balance. If anyone else on the green earth had tried that…but it was his angel, and his angel lived by an entirely different set of rules. 

“Too rough?” Zira said, against the shell of his ear. The warm tone slipped around his neck and slithered down his chest, then coiled up, content, in his belly. 

“The opposite,” Crowley mumbled, sure Zira could easily tell how hard he was considering how Zira had pulled him back, displaying the line of his long, lean body. He had on trousers that left very little to the imagination when he was standing upright, let alone when Zira was doing whatever Zira liked with him. 

Zira’s clever fingers ran through his hair, then tightened, twisted, and pulled. 

“Do you remember, my dearest, back in Golgotha?” Zira whispered, while he shouted at the sudden sensation. The sharp lance of the initial pull went through him first with no resistance, a sushi knife through soft underbelly flesh. The ache settled in second, like a fresh tattoo. “A terrible time overall, but you had the most lovely hair then. You were and are so lovely, no matter how you choose to present yourself. I had men offer me bride price for you.” 

“You did _not,”_ Crowley said, all but giggling with the euphoria that came to reward those who suffered. His scalp felt tight and hot, and Lust crackled up from the primal core of him. But the most heady want was just him. He wanted Zira because they loved each other and they could indulge in whatever they liked. They were free.

For awhile. 

“Oh, but I did.”

The moment held for much longer than it normally would, and Crowley could practically feel Zira’s emotions: afraid to breathe, of a sudden, but why? No surprise, perhaps, considering Crowley felt like he was standing at a precipice himself. It was like being atop the London Shard, the toes of his boots peeking over the side, city lights like stars below him. 

If he jumped, what might happen? 

“Crowley,” Zira said, and even if Crowley weren’t fully intent on Zira already that tone would have made him so. “You may call me a sentimental fool, but…I realize I am holding something very precious in my arms just now, and I would like to know how to best avoid breaking it.” 

Crowley felt Zira’s hand creep from his hair to wrap around his neck, making his thoughts fizzle out completely for a moment as he accepted that it was Zira of all people who had put their hands on him in such a way. But, he understood the question on an elemental level thanks to that cinch, like a knot tightening. He could feel the tension in Zira’s grip. Zira’s sword-hand. 

“Do you want to hurt me?” Crowley heard himself asking, already feeling as though they’d found themselves suspended between moments again. Would he ever stop returning to that white, empty plane where time had no meaning? If it was to be like this when he did he hoped not, with the fervent nature of prayer. “Is that it?” 

Zira had his wings out one moment to the next, and he’d canted them forward as if on instinct so Crowley was all but nestled in them. Crowley’s head swam, the angelic aura flowering over him like a bewitched vine. Perhaps he should have been frightened, as blue-white energy rose from the floor and spiraled out the half-open windows like smoke. But encircled by Zira’s wings was the place he felt safest, in all the worlds and in all the galaxies beyond their little sitting room in Otmoor. 

“Because I would let you,” Crowley whispered, eyes wide but unseeing. “Oh, no.” _Let_ was the wrong word. “I want you to.” 

He felt Zira shudder. It wasn’t so easily done, noticing such a detail; Zira was so tightly wound, so still, holding every single urge to heel at his feet until he’d been given complete assurance. But Crowley had attuned himself to Zira long ago, enough that across the bloody earth he could feel Zira’s barest need. 

“And what about pleasure, Crowley?” Zira said, the way the words slipped from his tender mouth all but doing Crowley in right there. Zira knew that pleasure was harder for him than pain, though both were gifts he’d never truly given anyone else. 

“Zira,” Crowley panted, “if you could make me feel Love, I’d even let you do that, too.” 

_And wouldn’t that be something._

He could easily imagine the sweetness of pleasure and pain so inextricably intertwined. He longed for Love. He’d never stopped, even after the pit of boiling sulfur had tried to destroy all he had been before. 

Reality bled at the edges. Zira’s skin burned against his, and the feather strung around his neck seared into his flesh. Before he could reconcile it he found himself bent over the back of the couch at a scandalous angle, Zira flush against his ass. He made a noise more appropriate to a mouse than a snake as Zira leaned over him, pulling his shirt free of his trousers so a chilly breath of wind ghosted over his bare flesh. 

“Hm,” Zira considered, while Crowley yearned to all but rub himself off against the bloody furniture like an animal. “I could. Make you feel Love, that is.” 

The angelic resonance in his voice should have burnt Crowley like holy water, and oh, burn it did. But he never feared being destroyed. The resonance of Zira’s true form rippled up his spine as Zira’s corporation slipped, just a little. Zira’s cock was doing a damn fine job of showing his interest, considering how tightly their bodies were pressed together, and his angelic self felt _covetous;_ the combination would easily have made Crowley come instantly under other circumstances.

He didn’t. He had the faint notion Zira might be upset with him if he did it without asking. 

But oh, the delicious Virtue-Vice of a covetous, _lustful_ angel, one who glittered with Love and love alike even as he absolutely _smoldered_ with jealousy at the thought of anyone even sending a wrong look Crowley’s way. 

The sitting room drifted. The surroundings telescoped in and out as Crowley found himself lifted on a wave of pure sensation, the physical desires of his corporation and the essential needs of his occult self melding in a way that would have surely driven any other demon mad. He could feel Zira’s touch, that Zira had taken down his trousers and had wrapped one of those big, clever hands around his cock. 

Zira’s magic, his Grace, asked. It came upon him like a touch also, yet one much more hesitant than the one Crowley’s corporation was currently enjoying. This hand wouldn’t simply remove clothes, if he consented. It would remove _layers,_ the ones he hid his real self behind, the ones that kept others out, that protected him. And there at the bare, beating heart of him, Zira could and would slither into his Being and never leave. 

It was if that Grace were whispering, in Zira’s most gentlemanly tone, _may I?_

What could Crowley say but yes, a thousand times yes? Six thousand years of yes _please?_

Zira took the first layer of his defenses away as if he were a handmaid removing her lady’s cloak. Crowley felt the weight lift, the radiating power of Zira’s Grace, and then the release as the burden was swept away to nothingness. He writhed in Zira’s grip, both physical and metaphysical. He felt Zira’s cock fill him with one rough thrust, and he came instantly. The claiming, oh god, it was all too much to resist. 

He didn’t let himself go soft. He wasn’t human. He was a bloody demon and he bloody well wanted to keep going, so he did. Zira pushed into him again, reaching up to pull his hair a second time, hard enough that he had to bend his head back and bare his throat. He was sure he’d cried out loud enough to wake the neighborhood then but he was powerless to stop it. 

Zira ascended the ladder of his ribs with a gentle hand, reverent, working his way over the curve of his shoulder and down his arm, his arm straining with the effort of gripping the back of the couch through a firestorm and a flood. Zira had a hard, insistent way of fucking him that he couldn’t help but meet, opening himself as much as he could every single time. He could feel Love, oh so faintly, like the bubbles in a fresh glass of champagne. Every time one of those bubbles popped needle-pricks of white-hot pain ghosted down his spine. 

The next layer. Would my lady like help out of her overdress?

_My lady would._

He definitely screamed that time, bucking up against Zira wildly. He felt around blindly in the mess of whatever was happening to his essence, finding not two discarded garments but four. Zira had taken away a layer himself, for every one he’d taken from Crowley. No wonder his fucking had become so masterful; the Lust Crowley had felt the spark of at the beginning hit flashover and consumed everything between them. 

His wings rushed into existence, snapping open. No matter Zira was utterly claiming his corporation; he could hardly think of anything more intimate than showing his wings. Zira’s free hand grabbed for them, stroking the lengths of his primaries, rifling through the downy coverts. Zira’s Greed filled him with sinister satisfaction, his demonic nature feeding off of the emotion and its complex, addictive taste, like a glass of Vieux Pontarlier Absinthe. Zira all but wrung another orgasm out of his trembling body, pinching the spot where his left wing met his body so hard Crowley sobbed. 

Zira’s wings dipped low and his came up on pure instinct, the ends of their flight feathers brushing. It was of such a quality inherent to their beings, how they’d been made by the Almighty, that he and Raphael were the same creature again for a moment. He could feel not only the vast cosmos, but all of that blessed healing power he’d once been gifted with. It had been - was? - written into his Being in the same way wings were, in the same way the desire to brush his feathers against another angel’s was. 

Love rushed into him with such force he nearly blacked out. It was love and Love, and yet it wasn’t the Virtue he could remember, however faintly, from his days in Heaven. Unconditional Love was all well and good, but angels hadn’t been made to experience it the way humans could. Their Love was clinical, something they neither had to think on or work at. It was the kind of love parents claimed was for their children’s own good, tough and unyielding. 

Zira’s Love blazed with Grace, oh yes. It struck a spark against each of his nerve endings like a blacksmith forging a blade. It filled every cell nigh-to bursting with blinding white light. He knew in his bones that if they’d been any other angel and demon, it would have killed him as surely as holy water had unmade everything Ligur ever was or had been. 

But that Grace, in Zira, had been tempered. It was warmth for a snake to sun in. It was cocoa and sun-touched hay fields and heart-shaped biscuits with flooded icing. It was the way Zira loved to watch light dappled through leaves, the way he delighted in strolling through a park made green by early spring. Instead of a vague, obligatory love for all of God’s creations, it was the affection he’d felt when healing Anathema on that dark road. It was seeing Adam, the antichrist, and realizing that Adam was before anything else a human child and no one’s tool. That it was no bad thing to _be_ human, that perhaps they’d gotten right what so many in Heaven and Hell had got so wrong. 

And then? There was so much Love that sang _his_ name, and only his name. The gravity of it made him exult when Zira took another layer of protection from him, not so much tearing it away as removing it with sure, strong movements and, like popping the laces on a corset, he could _breathe._ Finally breathe. 

“Please,” he all but wailed. His corporation was pushed right to the limit, a skein of his sweat-damp hair hanging in his face, his cock - so sensitive it was excruciating - held still in Zira’s fist as he bucked helplessly against the hold. He was asking to come again, yes, but more than that he could feel that all that stood between his essence and Zira’s was the thinnest layer of chiffon, wrapped closely around his pulsing core. 

Zira knew his mind, body, and heart. It was no effort at all for his angel to interpret him in this state, and Zira set about removing this last barrier as slowly and carefully as someone trying to preserve the thinnest, most expensive tissue paper without a single tear. Zira bent over him, mantling his wings. Not as a hawk over a hapless rodent, but as a hawk over its mate. 

Zira wrapped one arm around his middle, and held tight to his shoulder with his free hand. Zira’s cock pressed against his prostate mercilessly, and he all but shook apart in Zira’s arms a moment later as pleasure-pain flooded his nerve endings and he came so hard it stole his voice and stiffened his wings. The last layer pulled free and fluttered away. 

In an instant they were both pure essence. Even more than when they had switched bodies all unwitting, they were one. Braided together at the very center of him, silver, nebulae-purple. Like after-images, just two sets of wings so tangled together no observer would have been able to separate whose feathers were whose. And Zira’s essence, the soul he shouldn’t have had, whispered an incantation into that elemental place: _mine._

* * *

Crowley couldn’t guess at the time when he found himself in his corporation again, having returned to it like an exhausted person falling face first into a mattress. He groaned, the Name at the center of him still squirming as if it were a living thing trying to find a den to call its own. It sent jagged flashes of light across his being, shards of brightness that pierced deep into his occult nature. 

Zira’s Name. Just like his own, the one he’d signed on that contract in a convent’s front yard all those years ago now. He felt the faint sensation of being lifted and carried, and by the time Zira had bore him to their bedroom his surroundings had started to make at least some sort of sense. He couldn’t manage much beyond lying limp in Zira’s arms, but he realized they were in the cottage, that they were going up the steps to the second floor. 

He could sense the wards Zira had thought to set on Wendy’s door. Clever angel. She would have slept through it all, the scrawled Enochian gleaming against the dark wood ensuring that she would later wake from a dream about whatever she liked best. A sense of well-being settled on him, and he turned into Zira’s chest like a child. 

Zira laid him down on their bed, the tartan sheets more pleasant against his skin than he would ever admit to. He felt drunk but in the best way, like his head was floating above him, connected only by the thinnest thread to the rest of him. Euphoria suffused him and he was asleep almost before Zira slid in beside him. He felt a little miracle rush over him, cleaning him up and easing some of his aches and pains. 

He made it into the circle of Zira’s arms before falling into a dark and dreamless rest. 

* * *

It didn’t take long for the Them to show up on their doorstep. One moment Aziraphale had been grinding coffee in the antique grinder mounted in the breakfast nook, the next a frenzied knocking came from the front door. He approached, wary, and felt his human vessel slip. Angelic energy rolled over the floor like a fog, and he fully intended to murder whoever was standing outside should they pose the slightest threat to his family.

Instead it was four breathless children, walking their bicycles as they tried to get their strength back. Pepper wore her usual red poncho, Brian his green military-style jacket. Wensleydale looked quite smart, Zira thought, in his button-up and jumper. 

And then there was Adam, standing at the head of the group. Though technically he was no longer the antichrist, a mysterious power hung over him all the same. Zira realized they’d never given any thought as to who Adam’s mother might be, and an alarm sounded from the depths like the haunting, metallic noises of an abandoned submarine. 

“Hey Uncle Zira,” Adam said, his cherubic face lined with concern. “Felt like we ought to come by. Do you know what’s going on?”

“You know,” he said slowly as he stepped aside, allowing them to enter. “I believe I do.”

Wendy appeared at the top of the staircase. Crowley had gotten her a new dress, still a style that fell to her ankles. It had a blush pink underlay and black lace panels over top with intricate work in the Chantilly style. She had on gloves too, opera style ones that went to her elbow. She still wore combat boots, but those were new as well. She’d finally been able to shower, and she looked much rejuvenated by it with her combed, ribbon-bedecked hair and scrubbed face. 

“Oh,” Adam said, as if struck. “I see.” 

“Who’re you?” Wendy all but spat, as was her preferred method of communication when she felt nervous. 

“Wendy,” Zira said, with just the tiniest warning to his tone. She huffed an exaggerated huff at him, but she tried again. 

“Hi, I’m Wendy,” she said, descending the stairs as if afraid she might miss a step and tumble down the rest. “Who’re you lot?”

“Call ourselves the Them,” Adam told her, his friends clustered behind him like a clutch of newly hatched ducklings. “I’m Adam. This is Brian (he grinned), Pepper (she nodded), Wensley (he waved, shy)…oh, and Dog (Dog barked joyfully from his perch in the basket on the front of Adam’s bicycle).”

Zira watched then fondly, but as he pulled his angelic essence back into himself, he began to sense something altogether else. 

“See, we were just wondering if you wanted to come and play with us,” Pepper was saying, but Zira barely heard the words. He felt such a sense of well-being that it told him there must be some supernatural explanation, and he focused in on the children’s auras. It wasn’t the same thing as witches did; he felt more than he saw, though see he did. 

Pepper glinted, like dappled light over blown glass. Peace rolled off her in gentle waves, filling the cottage more and more for every second she stood there. Something very familiar was wrapped up in it all, though he couldn’t place it. It was as if in an instant the cottage hadn’t a single sharp edge or dark spot. Any minor annoyances he’d had disappeared, like Crowley blowing paint out of his favorite coat. 

“Pepper,” he started, but the Them with Wendy in tow were already out on the porch. 

“We can borrow Wendy right?” Adam cut in, distracting him. 

“Yes of course, but for the Lord’s sake stay out of trouble and come home before dark.”

Crowley had told him the whole story about Wendy’s rescue and he hated the thought of anything like that happening to her again. 

“You got it, Uncle Zira,” Adam said, and the Them were gone before he could voice his questions. 

* * *

“And anyway, it doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore,” Pepper said as she leapt from an overhanging tree root into the gentle curve of the earth below. She raced onwards, making the others give chase. Wendy hiked up her dress and ran with them, grinning like a person two hours from the insane asylum. 

“Well yes,” said Wensley when they’d made it to Adam’s wicker throne, his precise tone reminding Wendy of the assistants always buzzing around her father, telling him of appointments and who had just had a baby and what the latest political upheaval in the Middle East was about. “But you have to admit it changes things.” 

Brian shrugged. 

“Don’t see why it has to,” he said, packing a handful of licorice all sorts into his gaping mouth. He laughed as he lost a couple to the forest floor, chewing desperately so he didn’t drop any more pieces. He mumbled something that sounded faintly like: “Pepper is still our friend.” 

Pepper directed her to a mat to sit on and she made her way there, still holding her dress up the way she’d seen ladies do in period dramas. Pepper sat down too, across from her. 

“What are you talking about?” Wendy asked, tentative. She supposed they could always tell her to get lost if they didn’t like the question. She spent a moment daydreaming about the evil things she might like to do to them if they made her leave. Now that she knew Nanny Ashtoreth had been a demon all along, those violent urges made even more sense. 

“Pepper got turned into something magic,” Adam told her, a tone to his voice that spoke of leadership and confidence. He reclined on his seat above the others like a young king, curly hair framing a face of uncommon beauty. Maybe it was part of being the antichrist, she thought, thinking about Crowley’s explanations on their way back to the cottage. 

“Yeah,” Pepper said. “Well, they didn’t make me into something. I told them I’d do it and they helped.”

“Really?” Wendy felt a jolt of energy the way she did any time someone brought up magic. It made her so thirsty for knowledge, and at this point after having met a demon _and_ an angel she was ready to believe just about anything. “I’ve seen, you know…occult stuff before,” she said, waving her hand like the experiences hadn’t ruffled her at all. “Is it like that?” 

“Kind of?” Pepper said, considering. She bit her bottom lip and tapped her fingers against her knee, her boldy colored poncho and cheerfully decorated wellies at odds with her solemn mood. Wendy watched. Observing others could be very important. “See, the four of us were there when they tried to start up the end of the world, and we killed the horsepersons of the apocalypse.” 

“Wow,” Wendy breathed, accepting all this as truth. If Wendy believed in anything, it was the paranormal. 

“Yeah!” Brian added, having finally figured out chewing and swallowing all those sweets. “It was brill.” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Pepper said, in a tone that conveyed “before I was so rudely interrupted” without her having to say the actual words. “Anyway, so that leaves three places open.”

“Wait,” Wendy said, twisting around to look at Adam. “Three?”

“Fourth place belongs to Death,” Adam told her. He looked as happy as he had earlier, which was to say a great deal, but Wendy saw the shadow over him that the discussion had generated. 

“Got it,” was all she said. 

“So I defeated War. So I guess her place is mine. But I get to be Peace instead! Isn’t that great? I can go around the world someday, making people stop fighting and stuff. You know, misogyny and all that. Boys pointing bigger and bigger guns at each other.” 

“Wow,” Wendy said, and her thoughts about this were as different from her violent impulses as garbage heaps were different from newborn fawns. “That sounds just amazing. You can travel all over the place even though you’re a kid? And stop grown-ups from messing everything up?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Pepper said, drawing idle sigils in the dirt with a stick. “Haven’t thought about it too much yet.”

“You need the others,” Adam told her. He frowned. Frowning looked odd on him, as if he’d planned every section of his kingdom down to the last detail and any negative deviation was a personal affront. “You know. Polution, Famine, Death. But I guess now they won’t be those people, right? They’ll be good things, maybe. You know, like the horseperson of eating too many lemon sherbets.”

“That would be wicked!” Brian crowed, jumping up and punching the air. “Can that be my job?” 

Wensley smiled because Brian was his friend and god knows someone needed to encourage him now and again, but Wendy could tell neither he nor Pepper were taking to the notion as well. 

“Is it, though?” Pepper said, looking around at the Them. “Is it going to be all of us?”

“Well,” Wensley said as if he’d already worked it all out, “it would make sense. If Pepper is Peace then why shouldn’t it follow that we’re up for grabs?” The reality of it seemed to sink in then, because poor little Wensley in his fussy clothes shuddered like he’d been swimming along quite happily only to feel a kracken tentacle around his leg. 

Wendy listened to the Them bicker good-naturedly over what the other three horsepersons would be and who would fit those roles best. She might have contributed here and there under other circumstances, but she couldn’t stop looking at Adam. He watched them all as if he already knew what would happen and that the only spot for him was Death. 


	7. the fruit of the spirit is joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy and Crowley try to cook. It goes about as well as you'd imagine.

The next morning, Wendy came out of her room to find the following:

Aziraphale was sat on the sitting room couch with a book open on his left knee (she wondered if he ever read about the Bermuda Triangle or 50 Berkeley Square).

He really looked like an angel once he wasn’t pretending to be Brother Francis. She wondered if he’d crafted his own earthly vessel. He couldn’t look like this up in Heaven, right? Weren’t angels supposed to be burning rings of light, and have lion heads and stuff? Had he engineered the feather hair? The broad shape, yet still approachable thanks to a soft layer of fat over all that strength?

Even his clothes were unassuming. At the moment he’d stripped down a bit, his pale pink shirt sleeves rolled up, sans waistcoat and jacket. He had his bowtie tied, but that was the only dressed up thing he had on. His trousers were the comfortable sort, and his feet were bare.

It took her a moment to realize what the trouble was. He seemed so harmless that it made her absolutely _sure_ he was anything but. If he’d made his own form, it confirmed to her that he’d tried to pick such an unassuming self for some purpose. Probably a nefarious purpose. If he hadn’t? Could anyone be _that_ good?

Well anyway, she didn’t think many angels would be so content sitting there against a bunch of embroidered cushions reading a book. Whatever the book was, he had it balanced on his left knee because he had a china plate with a slice of cake on it on his right. She stopped in the shadow across the top of the stairs, sensing she was intruding but not yet knowing why.

Aziraphale took a piece of the cake between his fingers. He held it with such a sure but gentle touch the delicate dessert hardly changed shape. He reached over and down. Only then did she realize Crowley was on the floor, pressed up against Aziraphale’s leg, and that Aziraphale was feeding him pieces of cake like he was feeding a dog he liked to spoil. 

“Shouldn’t that be devil’s food cake?”

She exclaimed. She clapped her hand over her mouth. A heated blush arose in her cheeks; there was nothing overtly weird about all this, she supposed, but she felt like she’d stumbled on something she wasn’t supposed to see anyway.

Crowley went red as fresh blood. Aziraphale went as pale as a lily. Still, Aziraphale gave her an indulgent look as if he wasn't embarrassed at all. Crowley, on the other hand, shook off his daze and bolted for the kitchen.

“Perhaps you’re right,” the angel said, closing his book in such a way as to be mindful of its spine. “Hm. Maybe I should learn how to bake.”

She descended the rest of the stairs. She stood awkwardly by the front door, her hands jammed in the pockets of her new dress.

“I don’t know how to do any of that,” she offered. Of course Aziraphale knew that. He’d helped raise her. But trying to relate to him as Aziraphale instead of Francis left her all confused and dizzy.

Crowley stuck his head out of the kitchen. His blush had mellowed into the same color as the slip on her dress, and he’d adjusted his clothing so it wasn’t so obvious he’d been sitting on the floor.

“We could try and cook something,” he offered. His sunglasses were off. She’d seen those eyes before, full of rage and murderous intent. Now they were more like the eyes of a spooked cat, the pupils huge so that only a tiny bit of yellow could be detected.

“Yeah?” She said, studying her fingernails with affected disinterest. “Like what?”

“The tomatoes are lovely this time of year,” Aziraphale supplied. “So is the basil.”

“Right right,” Crowley said, coming into the room enough that he could lean himself against the door jamb. “Pasta maybe? Tomato basil sauce?”

“Do _you_ know how to make that, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, his bare toes curling into the plush carpet. He took a sip from his mug of tea. Something felt different about him, Wendy thought. He seemed…at ease in his own skin, in a way she’d never seen from him before no matter his disguise.

“Nope,” Crowley said, shrugging. “But we can figure it out together?”

She turned her attention to Crowley. He’d phrased it as a question, not sure if she would bother to spend time with him. She was about to be twelve years old and everyone knew twelve year olds weren’t supposed to like hanging out with their boring parents. But most people’s parents weren’t eldritch and ethereal beings from the dawn of time.

“Okay,” she said. Something was different about Crowley too, she realized as she stared at him. What was it? She felt like she’d wandered into an art gallery after hours and was stood there trying to puzzle out colors and shapes in the gloom.

“Let’s go, kid,” Crowley said. She noted he didn’t take any car keys as he went towards the front door. She took the ragged cloak she’d been wearing the night Crowley had rescued her from its peg. She swung it around her shoulders and put her arms through the armholes. She admired how it looked with her long gloves, and caught Crowley giving her a fond look.

_ I must look like a crow, come to think of it.  _

“Okay,” she said again, offering him a tiny smile in return. They went out the door together and down the path to the Bentley.

"How fast does this thing go?" She asked, sliding into the passenger side. She touched the dashboard, and settled into the leather seat. Her father had several very expensive cars, but they sat in a garage somewhere. They were a collection, not something to be used. 

Crowley buckled his seatbelt and grinned a conspiratorial grin. 

"You want to find out?"

"Yeah!"

He didn't use any keys to get the thing going. She could feel the barest echoes of what she supposed was demonic power rippling over the hood of the car. This thing ran on curses. 

"And you won't rat me out to Aziraphale?" 

"Cross my heart and hope to die!" She said, giddy with excitement.

He punched the accelerator, spinning the car expertly, and they shot off towards the city proper. 

* * *

“So,” Crowley was saying as he studied the cookbook open on its stand. The afternoon light beamed through the big window in the breakfast nook and the smaller window over the sink. It painted the pages in pink and gold as if to illuminate a precious manuscript. “I guess we should start with the pasta.” 

She stripped off her gloves, folded them, and stuck them in her pockets. She came over to the sink to wash her hands, a habit instilled in her by Crowley, it turned out. He’d been nanny Astoreth then, but the lessons stuck regardless of the deception.

“What do we do first?” She asked, moving to the butcher’s block in the middle of the kitchen. She smoothed her hand over its polished wooden surface. This house was so unlike her parent’s place. They had a lovely kitchen there, but no one did any cooking. They paid someone else to do it for them, as they had for every chore or inconvenience.

“Says make a well out of flour? What in Satan’s name does that mean?”

Crowley was very clever as a general rule, but the minute he looked at a cookbook his brain short circuited. Wendy wondered how the hell he and Aziraphale had kept themselves fed, but then she supposed they could just miracle up whatever they wanted. 

“You just…” She started. “Imagine it. You make a well out of the flour and puts the eggs in,” she added, coming over to read the cookbook for herself.

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah all right, I can see it.” He said, tapping his temple. She was beginning to realize that angels and demons didn’t come out of the factory with an imagination installed. Crowley had something approximating one, at least, or they might not have been able to do this at all.

“Here,” he said, bringing the flour over and pouring it onto the butcher’s block so gingerly Wendy giggled.

“Hey!” He said with false affront. “I don’t want it to go everywhere!”

“You’re acting like it’s a bag full of fire ants,” Wendy told him, grabbing for it. An arch of flour whipped out into the air like a wing opening. Sudden terror seized her, the way that thug had gripped her by the throat only a couple of nights ago. She’d only been here a handful of days and already she was ruining things and making messes. A wide stripe of flour hit Crowley in the chest.

Crowley burst out laughing. She stood frozen, the flour bag clasped in her shaking hands. He had tears in his eyes; he thought it was _that_ funny. She relaxed and started to giggle, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop.

“Fair’s fair, kid,” he said once he recovered enough to speak. He lunged for the flour and managing to throw a handful in her hair. She shrieked and went running into the living room, Crowley hot on her heels. He’d taken the bag off her and was flinging flour at her back, laughing like a maniac. Aziraphale jumped up as they went careening through the living room. The fight went up the stairs, trading blows. She got him on the face, and he threw a handful of flour at her that exploded all over her dress.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted. “What on earth…!”

“Quiet down angel or I’ll get you too!” Crowley, well, crowed. She slipped past him as slithery as a snake and ran to Aziraphale, hiding behind him.

“I swear to all of Creation, Crowley, if you throw that at me you are going to regret it,” Aziraphale said. Wendy got the distinct impression the angel wanted Crowley to cross that line, just for the fun of it.

Crowley did not disappoint. A handful of flour went right into Aziraphale’s hair. The angel cursed in ways Wendy felt sure weren’t Heaven-approved. Aziraphale lunged like the lion she’d thought of earlier. He and Crowley chased each other around the couch. Soon Aziraphale was howling with laughter too and Wendy’s heart felt so full she was honestly worried it might explode just like the flour bombs.

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s wrist and dragged him off balance before rubbing flour into Crowley’s hair in retaliation. Crowley laughed, breathless, his eyes shining. He and Aziraphale were standing in the rest of the flour, the rent and torn bag under one of Crowley's boots. Everyone came to a stop, and Wendy grinned in spite of herself.

“Oh,” she said, looking down at herself. “My dress…”

Aziraphale nudged Crowley back to a standing position and wrapped his arm around Crowley’s middle, drawing Crowley in close against his side.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, “allow me.”

He snapped his fingers, and all the flour disappeared. Wendy felt her mouth drop open in shock. She had always believed in the supernatural, the paranormal, but seeing it right in front of her eyes still stretched her brain right to its limits.

She ran her hands over her front. The dress was untouched and perfect, even better than before Aziraphale’s miracle. It fit perfectly now, and every little rough spot and loose thread had been waved away as if they had never been.

“Whoa,” she breathed, looking up at Aziraphale again. He looked rather sheepish, but pleased.

“Come on,” Crowley said, patting her on the shoulder. “Let’s try and actually cook this time.”

* * *

They managed the fresh pasta easy enough, with her rolling it out with methodical movements of her rolling pin. Crowley picked basil leaves from their stalk, filling the kitchen with a pungent, mouth-watering smell. Maybe it was the meditative nature of cooking that made the words fall out of her mouth:

“Crowley…when you were my nanny, did you…I mean to say were you…” She stopped, frustrated. Her hands stilled too and she stared at them, mournful. “Were you dressed up like a girl because you had to? You know, for your disguise?”

Crowley turned to look at her from where he stood at the sink, leaning back against the counter. She couldn’t read him. His snake eyes revealed very little at times.

“Are you asking if I’m a woman sometimes, or if it’s a costume?”

“Yes,” she said, refocusing on him instead of the dough. Crowley’s face went all quiet, making him appear very serious indeed.

“It’s not a costume,” he said, readjusting his position a bit as if the topic were making him physically uncomfortable. She thought she might recognize it, how in an instant your own body could feel like a too-tight, itchy jumper you could never take off. “I’ve been a woman several times in my existence. At the Crucifixion, even. There were a lot of female disciples there…it seemed like a good idea to present like that at the time.”

 _He was at the fucking Crucifixion?_

She thought, feeling rather hysterical of a sudden. She pushed it away hard for the moment. She could only deal with so much at once.

“And we —I mean angels and demons — don’t have genders or anything when we’re created. Most still don’t, even if they look male or female by earth standards.”

“But Aziraphale…”

“Yeah, it's rubbed off on him. He identifies with male, at least a little. And he’s been gayer than a club full of drunk twinks at a drag show for years. Shelters them in the bookshop when they need a place to hide. Other queer folks I mean. Gives them books they need, too. Stories that help.”

Wendy immediately revised her opinion of Aziraphale, placing a big black mark in the Good category.

“You both sound transgender,” she said, turning her attention back to the pasta. She folded it over itself in preparation for cutting it into ribbons. Nothing here felt like her parent's house. If she'd tried to cook back there, she would have been shooed away by the staff and forgotten again for the rest of the day. 

“Really?” Crowley said. She didn’t quite know what she’d expected, but unbridled excitement hadn’t been on the list. “I like that.”

“I guess nowadays they’d call you pangender or something,” Wendy offered, diffident. She’d never spoken to an adult that believed her about who she was. She knew she was proceeding into territory that most people thought was bullshit. “You know, like. Because you go through a lot of genders however you please.”

Crowley was watching her with such intensity she could feel his gaze on the side of her face, like heat from a low hanging sun.

“And Aziraphale would be a demi-male,” she went on, warming to her musings as she spoke further without being reprimanded. “You know, he came out of the factory with no gender or sexuality but now he’s decided he at least kinda identifies with male. So.”

She shrugged. Crowley was silent long enough that she glanced over at him. He had suspiciously wet eyes and was staring off somewhere in the middle distance.

“Thank you. I mean it. People like us have been present at every point in time in history, but…it’s nice, these modern ways of thinking. I never knew I wanted a label so badly until you just told me what might fit.”

Wendy walked over and hugged him tight.

“You’re the best, mum.”

If a tear or two wetted her hair as he reciprocated the affection, she never spoke a word to anyone about it.


	8. An Ardent River We Walked Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is from [this poem](https://poets.org/poem/soft-targets)

_Looking down as we fly  through the night over the Rochester skyline_

_it all looks different from this height, a city simplified_

_every home a tiny light, with a family inside_

_I Will Go Anywhere With You, Julia Nunes_

* * *

As if summoned, the Them arrived  just  in time for dinner.  Crowley and Wendy had made enough food to feed an army, neither of them quite sure when they should stop turning out pasta and stirring sauce . The children flitted about the house, bringing light and playfulness with them. Aziraphale welcomed it, caught up on its breeze like a dragonfly.

Pepper still had that lovely glimmer to her aura. It reminded Aziraphale of the Heavenly Host, but only the best parts. It reminded him of the Archangel Muriel in particular.  Muriel, always with a crown of flowers atop her dark  coily  hair, bringing the scent of lilies and tea rose begonias in a cloud of gentle perfume  . When she touched you, her skin was petal-soft, and her eyes were pale lavender ringed in gold.  Just  like a fresh peony.

But Pepper’s aura was missing Grace. And eldritch qualities too, for that matter. It was neither of Heaven, nor Hell. He studied the others, wondering if he could discern who might receive a strange gift next.  Perhaps  with Heaven and Hell tending to their failures, the earth was beginning to claim champions of its own .

_The Big One_ , Aziraphale thought, as they’d come to call the  as yet  to arrive second apocalypse. He pushed the thought away the same way a diner would push away a dish they had found a cockroach in.

Adam’s aura had diminished in the wake of what had happened at the airbase. Yet, he still had so much power it frightened Aziraphale to look at it. It was familiar too somehow, though the Devil had  been purged . It no longer held that evil fire, but it had something dark and lively that had filled the empty spaces. It reminded him of church grims and primordial seas and thrones sat atop great piles of skulls.

_And...Anathema?_

Still, Adam seemed as if he’d settled into himself. As powerful as he might be, at the moment nothing within him felt as though it were on the verge of change.

He followed Brian out to the back patio, plates of pasta in their hands. He kept one eye trained on Brian and the other on his path so he could avoid tripping while holding his food.  Brian’s aura was like looking straight through a pure emerald, complete with the feel and smell of the earth it had come from . He could detect nothing but pure sweetness. It was as if Artemis Herself had come to lay a blessed hand on him.

But nonetheless, Brian had yet to receive anything the way Pepper had.

Crowley lounged on the bench under the kitchen window, Wendy next to him doing her best not to bolt her food and failing  .  The aroma of basil filled the space, and the cheerful striped furniture cheered Aziraphale in turn . The fairy lights they’d strung up twinkled over Crowley and Wendy, and there were yet more over the patio. They’d strung them across so a gentle, blinking canopy would light up once night fell. He went to the biggest table, with its centerpiece of cut flowers.

Pepper was sat there also,  idly  twisting her fork across her plate and kicking her feet.  She looked the definition of pensive, her sharp dark eyes narrowed, a determined cast to her chin and forehead . For once she’d shed her poncho, to reveal a hand-knit red jumper with a daffodil and a duck embroidered on it. It clashed with her mood, to say the least.

“You rather look as if something is on your mind, dear girl,” Aziraphale said,  swiftly  spinning a bite of pasta on his fork and popping it in his mouth . Fresh herbs burst on his palette, the rich tomato coming behind to mellow and marry the flavors. Quite good, considering neither Wendy nor Crowley had attempted cooking before.

He watched Adam and Brian play with Dog, chasing each other through the grass. Brian always looked grimy, but he had the simple unaffected joy of someone simple. Not in a cruel way, no.  Brian  simply  didn’t see a reason to let himself get melancholy, and maintained a general attitude of harmless risk taking and well being .

“Uncle Zira,” Pepper said in a nigh-whisper, not looking at him. “What’s happening to me?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said. He felt a flutter of affection at a girl as tough and standoffish as Pepper calling him uncle. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“Had a dream,” she mumbled, abandoning all pretense of eating. “Persephone and Obatala came, and gave me gifts. Said I was Peace now, since I defeated War.”

While Aziraphale did a remarkable job of keeping his face neutral, inside he was going mad. What could something like this mean? Nothing good, he was sure.

“Hm. And that troubles you?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, lifting her head to look at him as if he’d gone round the bend. “What does that mean? What does it _really_ mean? I don’t know if I’m done being a kid.”

Aziraphale’s heart tore in half with agonizing slowness. He didn’t know what it was to be a child, but he did know what it was to be a  freshly  fledged angel.  At times he wished he could return to that place of ignorance and warmth, before there was any talk of war, before he  was made  to endure walking past his brethren only for each of them to offer a disparaging comment or hard look .

Then again, there had been no Crowley then.  Well, Raphael had existed of course, but they never had the chance to come together as Archangel and helpmate as they  were meant  to .

“Perhaps  you can be both,” he offered, after a moment’s thought. “Sometimes I am amazed by what the mind of a human child can  accomplish.”

“You would say that,” Pepper rejoined, rolling her eyes though Aziraphale could spot the fact that she was listening despite the scorn  . “You’re an angel. You’re  probably  excited by coffee makers and umbrellas and stuff. Don’t have all that in Heaven, do they?”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale admitted. “But I have been on earth for six thousand years, dear girl. I know what a coffee maker is, at the very least.”

“Oh,” Pepper said, scratching her head in a way that revealed she  was caught  up in her own thoughts to a distracting degree . “That’s right. Sorry. I guess…I saw what Adam almost did with his powers. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

“Pepper,” Aziraphale said, heart-struck. “Be yourself. That has always been your greatest strength. Allow yourself to be a child, powers  notwithstanding . Those powers don’t keep you from pretending to be pirates with the rest of the Them, do they? Or from playing sharks and minnows with Wendy?”

“I guess not,” Pepper grumbled. She’d conceded the point but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Aziraphale tried not to quirk his mouth up at that; it reminded him of Crowley so.

“I know your little sister looks up to you,” Aziraphale continued. “ Maybe  as Peace that is your first task. Teach her to be an avatar of what it is you represent. And that can be as simple as showing her kindness, as playing the games she wants to play. You needn’t make sweeping gestures to be effective.”

Before Pepper could answer, Brian and Adam came over. They had their arms over one another’s shoulders, and were grinning ear to ear.

“Want to play tag, Pepper?” Adam asked.

Pepper jumped to her feet, up for it so much so that she didn’t even have to think of her answer.

“Hey!” Wendy said, rushing over. She looked pristine again thanks to that flour-related miracle. Her hair had been  carefully  braided in a way that screamed of Crowley's sure hand. “I want to play too!”

“Okay,” Adam said without having to pause.  Wendy clapped her hands together, awfully pleased, in a gesture so reminiscent of Nanny Ashtoreth Aziraphale did a double take .

The children all but flew away like those eager fledglings he'd thought of earlier, itching to test their wings.  Aziraphale leaned back in his chair with a flute of champagne in hand, watching the children with great affection as they ran circles around the house, laughing and shouting .

He felt Crowley come up beside him. He could feel Crowley’s presence for kilometers if he focused. His love's aura was unique; burnt ash, cinnamon, dark and heady feather-musk. The scent of luscious rainforest plants tangling together to block out the sun.

“Isn’t it perfect, Crowley?” He said, with the same timbre he used when entering old Gothic cathedrals.

Crowley brought a chair over next to him and sat, sprawled out as much as he could against the bright cushions.

“You know what?” Crowley started, as if he were going to say something negative. “It is. It  really  is.”

He reached for Crowley’s hand, only to find that Crowley was reaching for him as well.

“I could get used to freedom,” he said, turning to take in the sight of his beloved as they laced their fingers together.  Crowley still wore the undershirt he’d had on when he and Wendy had been cooking, revealing his leanly-muscled arms (a view Aziraphale quite appreciated)  . Aziraphale caught a whiff of garlic and simmered butter. It made him smile. Crowley had on his black trousers still, but no coat or shoes.  Aziraphale thought of cats comfortable enough to pull in all their paws and lounge around like a loaf of dough left to prove.

He squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley looked back, and something within his demon stilled at doing so.

“Oh angel,” Crowley said, taking his sunglasses off. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve craved exactly this.  All of  this.”

Aziraphale fell silent as Crowley turned his attention to the children for a moment.  As they rounded the house again with Wendy in the lead, Crowley shouted encouragement (though in Crowley’s case that meant reminding her she could split all their skulls with a meat cleaver if they showed her the slightest cheek) .

“You’ve always loved children so,” Aziraphale said. All those times when it had been Crowley who thought of the children, instead of Heaven. A nasty jolt of virulent anger at his former comrades unsettled Aziraphale as if he were in a fight for his life. It felt like that moment in a heated battle when the adrenaline well and  truly  kicked in.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, settling down again. “They’re…innocent, I suppose. Haven’t had all the fun and make believe burned out of them yet.”

Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder if Crowley ever longed for children of his own. The kind created from  purely  human means. He had no idea if it was possible between them, but he vowed to give that to Crowley one day if indeed Crowley longed for it.

"It’s good for us to have them here,” he agreed. “It’s all too easy for angels and demons to become set in their ways. I don’t want us to…to calcify, our worlds getting smaller and smaller until we’re only acting by rote.”

“Don’t worry, angel. That’s not going to happen to us. We’ve never been like the others and we won’t be like them that way either.”

They settled into blissful, companionable silence, letting the events of the day take place around them as though they were a pair of old wolves with their pups gamboling around them . It was Adam’s voice that broke them out of their little bubble.

“You know what this place needs?” He announced, peering down at Aziraphale who by that time had sunk down in his seat a fair way.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said, as Crowley straightened up next to him. “Wassit?”

“A name for the cottage, and a dog!” Adam announced. Aziraphale looked up at him. Adam had on his usual kit, a shirt and a button-down, open down his middle, over top.  The coming autumn had made him trade out his shorts for proper trousers, but otherwise he was as Aziraphale had grown accustomed to .

Yet, Adam’s presence had not diminished. Not even after repudiating his dominant parentage. Everything he declared sounded so reasonable, so correct, that it made Aziraphale shudder. At least this time it was  just  about a dog.

Wendy trotted over.

“Oh can we get a dog, oh please? Please, dad!” Wendy exclaimed. That made Aziraphale sit up straight as a pin. He knew better than to comment on the term, as it had slipped from her lips by accident (or so he told himself).

“Hm,” he said instead. He glanced at Crowley. “ I think  we could, if your mother approves.”

He heard the tiniest hitching breath in Crowley’s chest, as Crowley fought against tears. It had been so easy to slip into parent roles with Wendy, after raising her together for so long. It made something in his chest slot together  perfectly .

“Sure, kid."  Crowley said, doing an admirable job of dialing down his emotions for public consumption . “What kind of dog are you thinking?”

“Well, you’ve got to have a mutt, haven’t you?” Brian interjected.  A new layer of grime had stamped his face with freckles made of earth, and grass stains darkened the legs of his denim trousers . “Best dogs out there, mutts.”

“Actually,” Wensleydale said, pushing his way into the circle that had formed around Aziraphale and Crowley . He adjusted his glasses before speaking further. “Brian’s right. Purebred dogs — “

Before he could launch into a recounting of anything and everything he knew on the subject, Pepper tapped him on the shoulder and shook her head . He quieted.

“Could go to the shelter,” Crowley said, “if we wanted. Lots of different dogs there.”

“Oh mum, what a brilliant idea!” Wendy said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Can we go today?”

Crowley sighed and pretended to consider for a long moment. “Yes all right, my treat," with an air of being  terribly  put upon that no one believed for a second.

All the children cheered and the whole group piled into the Bentley.

“Hang on,” Aziraphale asked from his customary seat beside Crowley as the children jostled for space in the back  . “  I believe  you mentioned naming the cottage.”

“Oh, that’s obvious,” Wensleydale informed him. “Pansy Cottage.”

Crowley cackled while Aziraphale fixed him with his best put out look.

“Well,” Aziraphale finally said. “I can’t fault your logic.”


	9. You'll Pine I Know For The Long, Long Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wensleydale and reality have a conversation

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,  
This beauty that will pass;  
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy  
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,  
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,  
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,  
Lit by a slanting sun...

_The Wayfarer, Patrick Pearse_

* * *

Wenslydale noticed the hare on the fifth day after the dinner at Pansy Cottage, though the hare had noticed him at the beginning of the aforementioned timeline. The fifth day, which had seen Wensley and company racing through the apple orchards wielding weapons cut from cardboard. Rabbits, perhaps, had a reputation for being perpetually late, but a hare never lowered one’s self to such tawdry personality flaws.

He (finally) saw the animal at the edge of the meeting place he and the rest of the Them (and Wendy) had crafted, though now, he noted, none of his friends played and lounged alongside him. They’d just been there, he felt, arguing about how many insects were in the world and whether they should get rid of mosquitos or not. Usual things. But…

The first klaxon went off in his head; he never would have been here alone. 

The hare’s eyes were impassive. Reality warped like someone manipulating a sheet of metal, the grass flickering in and out like the monitor on his old computer (his parents refused to buy him a new one, built character they said) when it was about to give up and take his work with it. 

He took a step forward. The sky had retained some normalcy; at least it was its usual color. Yet, the clouds gave it away. They were too perfect, heaped up like whipped cream. 

He could smell a river, too, which he felt certain hadn’t been part of Tadfield before. Was this a dream? It felt like that, but only partway. The rest he wasn’t sure about. He thought back to his book of fairy drawings given pride of place on his headboard shelves. (he’d crammed a veritable library of _The Observatory_ up there with it, as if to make up for the wholly unscientific tome ) Could that be it? 

_Actually, that doesn’t seem very likely._

He tried his usual method of pushing back the supernatural through scientific fact and no small part denial. 

Nothing. He would have to accept the magical happenings around him, as much as he could. 

He kept walking towards the hare. Somehow, he knew he had no choice. Or rather he did, but the other option meant forgetting everything he’d seen and learned since he and the rest of the Them went off to stop the apocalypse. Giving up knowledge felt so antithetical to his being that he’d rather put up with magic then not if it meant he got to keep his memories. 

The singing started right as the hare bounded away, forcing Wensley to run after it. The voice was entirely ethereal, like the finest, thinnest piece of lace made by a master. 

**O, Father dear, I oft times heard you talk of Erin's Isle, her lofty scene, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild…**

Wensleydale stopped, turning in a slow circle. In the distance, where the hare had disappeared to, a field of flowers stood. As he waited there, considering, a presence came upon him like a knit scarf made of mist.   
****

**_Do you remember,_ ** _said the new voice,_ **_the old stories? The ones I taught you?_ **

_Granny?_  
****

He could feel her hands, ghostly but still gently laid over his the way they often had been when she’d been teaching him something. Years of peeled and chopped vegetables, how to spin yarn, how to sheer a sheep. Her accent teased his ear, that old Cork accent that very few people outside of the county itself could understand.

_What stories?_

He asked, throat crowded up with unshed tears. He missed her, and her death hadn’t been so long ago that he’d purged his grief. Often, though his parents meant well, it was Granny who spent the most time on him, and Granny who offered the least judgement. 

Instead of responding directly, his Granny’s ghostly singing voice played beside him like a whisper. 

**Oh, It's well I do remember that bleak December day, the landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away…**  
****

_What does that mean?_ Wensley asked, half-aware of walking through the meadow of flowers, spring squill and bog rosemary popping out of the ground as if his presence alone had given them reason to bloom. He looked up, only to see a stand of silver birches, each bearing apples burnished by the hand of nature to a glowing, preternatural gold.   
****

Granny’s ghost rode his shoulders like a scattering of morning dew. It altered his vision also, or perhaps day and night were flexible concepts here, because the next thing he saw was the great vault of the night sky arched above him like a black river replete with silvery salmon.

**Your parents wanted to clean you up and make you properly English. Do you remember?**

He did. And he’d taken to it, accepting the Oxford shirts and patterned jumpers, the dress shoes and the sensible trousers. Though his parents always seemed disturbed after, as if they’d done too good a job. Maybe that was where the nickname Youngster had come from.   
****

**Is that what you want?** Granny said, in a voice more like waves crashing on a distant beach than anything human. **Then turn back now.**

He noted he’d made it to the water. It was indeed a river, he thought as he stood on the bank. But never had he seen such an expanse of water, rushing and leaping.   
****

**If not…**

Then, she was gone. So was the hare. He got the message.

_Keep going._

Even without Granny he recognized this dream-land as sacred, a concept he’d never bothered to entertain before stepping into whatever this place was. If he focused, some kind of burgeoning magical sense would speak to him about the land, sea, and sky. He found himself describing a shaky circle, his trainers crunching in the grass. Somehow, he knew not to walk widdershins. 

It took him a long moment to note the smell of cooking meat. A little up the bank sat a man big enough to be a giant, clad in bear furs. His long, ladybug-red hair hung loose, except for a thick braid by his right ear. His eyes…Wensley struggled to describe them. They were the universe, something out of string theory or quantum mechanics. 

The man had made a fire out of carefully composed kindling, interspersed with stronger branches as the set up had to support a truly immense cooking pot. Wensley noted a wild hog lying on the man’s left side; Wensley wondered if it was too fat to stand up. Either way it, tame as a hand-raised pup, focused on eating the grass. The roughage never ran out, replenishing so quickly Wensley couldn’t see the moment between the pig denuding it and it coming up again fresh. 

On the right a great spit turned without a hand upon it, roasting a pig just as fat as the one that yet still lived. 

“Who are you?” He asked, though as soon as the words came out they pulled apart like candy floss and disappeared. 

“Oh, no one of consequence,” the man said. An obvious lie; everything about him simmered with power. “Come and eat, won’t you?” 

Wensley felt compelled to do so, and he had to admit the meat did smell mouth wateringly delicious. 

“Waitaminute,” he said in a rush, trying to firmly plant his feet. “Are you a Fae?”

He knew that much. You weren’t supposed to eat fae food, or goblin fruits. 

The man all but chortled. Normally that would have been strange from such an imposing figure, yet it seemed to fit after all. 

“No, clever boy. I’m a god.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sick as hell y'all but turns out I didn't mess up my only understandable to me 'posting schedule' too bad. Enjoy. This one was really personal for me and it has a bunch of layers that I hope come through.


	10. To Sit With A Dog On A Hillside On A Glorious Afternoon Is To Be Back In Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Wendy deal with trauma (lightly referenced).

Crowley had made the most of his morning. He lounged over the arm rests in one of the sitting room chairs, a glass of calisaya dangling from his fingers. Though he’d opted to get dressed - a mesh top with roses printed on it and sleek black trousers with detailing down the legs - he’d not bothered with his sunglasses. This was his home, their home, and he didn't want to get into the habit of distancing himself from it.   
  
“Mum,” Wendy’s voice sounded aggrieved as she trotted out of the kitchen. “Are you drinking? It’s ten in the morning!”  
  
Crowley sat up, rather taken aback.   
  
_Surely she’s seen people drink at all hours of the day and night, with a father like hers. I remember those wild parties._   
  
Well, the sperm donor anyway. Thaddeus wasn’t much of a father, and absent at best. When Thaddeus _was_ around, though, there had always been mind numbing political celebrations with no end (Crowley thought of that one memorable night where an MP had a slash into the grandfather clock). The booze always flowed from dusk till dawn. He should know; some of those old windbags and empty suits had pinched his ass hard enough he wouldn’t be surprised if the marks were still there.   
  
“That bother you, starlight?”  
  
He asked, setting the glass on the coffee table. As Nanny Ashtoreth, he'd never had alochol in front of her besides the occasional glass of white wine with food. Had to keep up the reserved but sinister appearances.

_Speaking of appearances..._  
  
Wendy had leaned hard into the goth aesthetic. Crowley had miracled up far too many clothes the other night for her to inspect and choose from. Today she had on a dress that had silver straps crossing over her shoulders and collarbones. The actual bodice was black with electric blue shimmer underneath, and her leggings had silver stars on them. Blue glitter made her trainers shine.   
  
Her jewelry consisted of earrings in the shape of the sun with a crescent moon curving against the far edge, and a headband encrusted with rhinestones. He always had to resist the urge to do ridiculous things like steal the Queen’s Opal for Wendy’s accessories, just to make Wendy smile.   
  
At the moment she was far from smiling. She had her arms crossed over her chest and had such a pointed look on her face she looked eerily like Zira down to the slight flare of her nostrils. When she got angry, it felt like she was emitting a supernatural power, radiating like angelic Grace.   
  
“It’s not good for you, mum,” she said. Crowley recognized what was happening: she was shaking, her fingers white where they sat against the black fabric of her sleeves. Her words wobbled and so did her bottom lip. He showed those same signs when things got overwhelming and he was about to bloody cry. Again.  
  
He stood up and offered his hand. She took it, and he lead her to the back door.   
  
The dog met them on the patio.   
  
_“What will it be, my dear?”_  
  
 _Aziraphale asked, following Wendy down the row of cages. He did so at a much more sedate pace than the children. They bounced from animal to_ animal like _ping pong balls in an arcade game. Crowley wouldn't have felt the slightest surprise if the sound effects kicked in one minute to the next._  
  
 _Crowley wanted to rescue every last tiny soul in the place, but he knew they didn’t have the room. Even with miracles that level of care for so many would be hard._  
  
 _He tried to ignore the cats mewling for attention and the dogs curled up, sullen, on donated blankets. He might not like dogs, per se, but their sadness still prodded at his demonic senses in a way that made his eyes well up with tears._  
  
 _The snakes were especially difficult to ignore. He couldn’t help but notice how inadequate their shelters were._  
  
 _Well, maybe when the paddock is finished, he told himself._  
  
 _Thus comforted he went over to the cage at the far left the_ Them _had clustered around. Inside, accompanied by a big fluffy blanket and an assortment of brightly colored toys, stood a giant mutt. It had the height of a Great Dane, his withers at Crowley's hips. Yet any intimidation factor was rather ruined by its messy black fur that made him look more like a cherished and much-loved stuffed animal than a fearsome guard dog. He had the face of a Schnauzer, but the big head and_ doofy _grin of a Labrador._  
  
 _He_ leapt _up when he set eyes on Crowley, woofing and clattering against the bars._  
  
 _“I think he knows what you are, darling”, Aziraphale said, unable to contain his laughter. Maybe that was it, though the damn thing seemed more excited than afraid._ It’s _tongue lolled out of its mouth, a grin plastered on its big dumb head. It sniffed Wendy’s hand, the rest of the Them thrusting theirs between the bars for inspection._  
  
 _It licked Wendy’s face when she got too close, making her giggle so much she had trouble stopping the fits of laughter. Adam laughed too, putting his arm around Wendy’s shoulders. Crowley had an immediate protective reaction, but he kept his urge to scare the boy into good behavior buried. Barely._  
  
 _“Is he the one?” Aziraphale asked, standing with the children. He almost seemed one of them in his pure excitement, his fingers crooked through the mesh of the kennel door. “Well hello, you clever thing”, he added, peering in. “What a handsome fellow.”_  
  
 _If the dog knew what he was, he clearly knew what Aziraphale was too; he stared at Aziraphale in utter bliss then sat without being asked. His big yellow eyes goggled around as if he'd gotten into a patch of purple kush._  
  
 _“Can I have him, dad? Please?” Wendy said, taking Aziraphale’s hand._  
  
 _“Of course you may. He will be a good companion when you go out to the water or into the woods, I should think.”_  
  
 _An attendant showed up, a white woman with her blond hair tied back in a tail. She wore_ the green _shirt with gold lettering that passed as a uniform here. She brightened at seeing a nice family falling in love with one of her charges. Crowley saw it transform her face, her eyes sparkling. The dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks became more prominent as she flushed with excitement._  
  
 _Crowley wriggled into her mind. She had no chance of detecting him. Luckily he hadn't done it to tarnish her soul the way Ligur would have._  
  
 _It didn’t take much to read her story._  
  
 _Leave your husband, he whispered into her grey matter. Flee. Take the children and go where he won’t ever find you._  
  
 _“Mum?” Wendy said, jolting him out of his temptation. “What do we name him?”_  
  
 _She had the dog on a borrowed leash. The dog was making a racket, woof woof woof. Trying to run circles around Wendy, trying to lick Zira’s hands. He groaned. Inwardly._  
  
 _No sense ruining the mood._  
  
 _“How about Dis?” He said._  
  
 _“Why Dis?” Wensleydale asked, adjusting his glasses. Pepper meanwhile had her hands buried in the dog’s fur, petting it so expertly its back leg kicked. Brian was going on about what a good friend the dog would be, how it would love Dog and then they could have the best adventures with their noble hounds at their sides._  
  
 _“You know who gets sent to the City?” Crowley said. A wily grin plucked at the corners of his mouth. “Perverts. Blasphemers. Questioners. The wrathful. Gluttons! Sounds perfect for us, yeah?”_  
  
 _And so Dis the dog piled into the Bentley (the children had to hold him on their laps to make him fit at all) and went to his forever home._

* * *

  
“Woof!” Dis announced, his ridiculous beardy face wet from drinking out of a puddle, his big yellow eyes full of simple joy. It was like he was saying “Hello! I know you are a demon! Isn’t it wonderful I know such a juicy secret?”   
  
The mere presence of Dis made Wendy calm down enough for her to stop shaking. She patted his thick, damp (turned out Dis loved water, as at least one ruined jacket could attest) skull before he bounded off again to find a tennis ball to slobber on.

Crowley took her over to a patch of grass dotted with wildflowers, and there they sat despite the dew. For a long time, they were both silent. Wendy had her knees drawn up to her chest and he lounged back on his elbows. Both of them watched the wetland laid out before the, a strange melancholy rolling off the lake to entangle with the grey day.   
  
“I remember the parties,” Crowley said. “They never went well for me, really. I can only imagine how you must have felt. I’m sorry…I don’t know how I didn’t realize.”  
  
“Its okay, mum. Don’t be sad.”  
  
She leapt to comfort him. Did they expect that of her at home? She was only a child; they should have been showering her with affection and attention. Not the other way around. Not like that.   
  
“No, starlight,” he said, “it’s not your job to comfort me. This is about you, not me.”  
  
Wendy plucked a flower and pulled the petals off at methodical intervals. She canted her head so a wing of hazelnut-colored hair partly obscured her frowning face.   
  
“I didn’t have it so bad. It’s just, when mom drank she got mean. Real mean. Sometimes she’d slap me for no reason. Wearing the wrong shirt, or not helping her enough around the house. Got worse when we were going to have guests.”  
  
He remembered the fuss Harriet always made when a party drew near, how she would make the servants get down on their hands and knees to scrub out every corner in the place. Wendy had often gone to Brother Francis then, listening to Aziraphale go on about flowers.   
  
Aziraphale couldn't grow them the normal way, of course. Not like he could. Yet the angel seemed to feel that each one had a special personality, as if they were human, and he loved to tell Wendy all about them.

Crowley made a mental note to murder the Dowlings at his earliest convenience and fumbled for something to say.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his fury contained for Wendy’s sake. “No one should be treated like that.”  
  
 _Unless you’re a demon. Unless you deserve it._   
  
“That’s never going to happen to you here,” he added. He wanted to promise her nothing bad would ever happen to her again, but that would have been cruel. And a lie. “Worse thing Zira and I ever do when we're three sheets to the wind is argue about whales. And...well, we can’t fix the past, but the future could turn out all right. Big fan of optimism, me.”

He felt eggshell-fragile endorsing any kind of good end to all they'd been through, but he had to put all of his mangled faith somewhere.   
  
Wendy leaned against him, the panic attack averted. What he supposed were maternal instincts surged through him. Wendy could take care of herself in so many ways, having been forced to grow up quickly. Yet there was still this part of her that ached to be loved.   
  
_I’ll give you that. As much as I can muster. Zira too._   
  
“You’re safe with us,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having such fun designing Wendys outfits! I have this scene in my head of Wendy and Crowley going through all those clothes. Maybe I'll write it as an extra sometime! Thanks for bearing with me, considering this one took a little longer to post than usual. Trust, I have like 6k ready to go after this chapter and there will be more soon. 
> 
> Adderall is magic, y'all. The focus! The commitment! I left my abusive job also, and my soul is still recovering. But you know what? It IS recovering. So I'm content with the healing process at the moment. I hope your struggles go as smoothly as possible and you come out the other side whole. <3
> 
> A couple of chapters after this and we'll go careening into angst town. 
> 
> P.S. I think Crowley doesn't like dogs much at first, so he's grumpy.


	11. I Want To Lay Up Riches On Earth (Since I Don't Believe In Heaven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy and Zira bond. Wensley makes a choice.

“You can’t be a god,” Wensleydale blurted. He peered suspiciously at the other being through the lenses of his practical glasses. “Gods aren’t real.”

The setting swam before his eyes, the clear sky an endless vault where spirits played. The water at his back, replete with all manner of life, whispered wisdom to him in a language he only half understood. A kind of fire had kindled in his head, the kind that burned forests to infuse them with new life.

He shuddered. Even though he’d stood at the end of the world, he’d chosen to focus on Adam’s words from that gray day: “thing is, they’re not real. Not really. They’re just like nightmares…”

He’d applied that to everything that had happened, and what he couldn’t explain away he ignored. Kept him from going completely insane, at least. He hoped. He didn't want to end up like Granny at the end, calling for family members long dead and mixing up the ones that still lived.

The man threw his head back and laughed. Wensleydale felt his negative emotions melt like thin-sliced onions in the man's stew pot, leaving him blessedly at ease for the moment. However, he was no less confused.

“Are you so sure? How are you here talking with me, if that’s true?”

Wensley considered, giving his surroundings a furtive accounting. It could be a dream. But he had to admit it felt like no dream he’d ever experienced. He stood in a liminal space in the way of dreams, but this in-between place was not triggered by normal sleep.

“Sit,” the man said, stirring his bubbling concoction. The ladle looked so big Wensley bet he could have fit into it twice over if he’d been so forward as to test his theory. He did as asked instead, the river burbling and rushing at his back. It brought the silvery aroma of spawning fish to Wensley’s nostrils. Tangled up with it, Wensley could detect otter fur slick with water.

A vision flashed across his consciousness; ogham writing, proclaiming the people that lived around the carved stone the people of the otter.

“Why am I here?” Wensley asked, trying to put on his best adult-aggravated-at-the-DVLA voice.

“I brought you here,” the man said, with mischievous simplicity. Wensley chewed the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose,” Wensley said, cross. “You didn’t bring me here just to tease me and tell me obvious things, did you?”

He could have sworn the hog at the man’s side stopped eating for a moment to give him a withering glare.

The man passed over the biggest bowl of stew Wensley had ever seen instead of answering. Wensley had to balance it on his knees with the precise control of a trapeze artist to avoid spilling it. It smelled delicious. No, it smelled like the ultimate stew, the first stew, after which all stews had been modeled. He could recognize the heady perfume of braised pork fat, and the base of vegetal variety that he nonetheless couldn’t name with any degree of certainty.

_It is a liminal space, after all. Who knows what they grow here? Or do they magic up whatever they like?_

He took the spoon sticking out of the bowl. He pushed through the trepidation he felt about eating a meal made by a supernatural being and allowed himself a mouthful. Instantly, it was as if he’d never known the barest hunger. He felt warm and stuffed in a pleasant fashion as he continued to enjoy the meal. As opposed to eating too much holiday food and having to lie on the floor for four hours until the discomfort passed.

Not that Wensley had ever ended up in such a position. That was for little babies who didn’t know better. Surely.

“Pepper told us that some gods and stuff showed up to give her a spot that used to be War’s,” Wensley tried again, keeping his head bent so he wouldn’t have to look at the...god before him. He set the dish aside as his stomach knotted with anxiety again, and plucked an anemone. He picked off its layered, vivid-purple petals with shaking fingers.

“Aye, I imagine that’s true,” the man - the god - said. “There’s Heaven and Hell, but there are other things that don’t belong to either.”

Wensley snapped his head up in shock. The god was staring right at him, a gaze as if a shaft of sunlight had pierced him through the heart and was radiating out from his spine.

“Then who are you?”

He asked. The moment stretched like fresh saltwater taffy. It was as if the universe - whatever universe this was - had to struggle to maintain borders around the power within this singular being.

“An Dagda,” the man said, as simple as anything. Wensley felt residual power rush in his ears like blood, making his heart all but stop with awe. He knew the name. “Father God. I belong neither to Heaven nor Hell. I belong to the Earth. The ones who appeared to Pepper are of the same character. If the angels and demons may choose their sides and their champions, so may we.”

“Are you seriously considering _me?”_ Wensley said, incredulity infusing his voice with the kind of sassiness that sometimes made Greasy Johnson try and box his ears. “I may have defeated Famine but I needed help! None of the others needed help.”

He added, a grumpy coda to his disbelief. Of course the others - even Brian - had defeated their dark counterparts with nothing but a few words and a single thrust of a flaming sword. Things - weapons - he’d had, too. But they’d been inadequate for him. None of the Them ever gave him grief over it, to their credit. Even so, it lurked in the back of his mind all the time.

An Dagda grinned, revealing good strong teeth.

“Well, inside every future accountant lies the heart of a chieftain. And every chieftain needs a trustworthy dog at his side, don’t you think?”

Wensley had nothing to say to that.

“You know what’s inscribed on your bones? Famine. Like all my children,” An Dagda said, as serious as R.P. Tyler when it came to scrumping apples. “There’s a hunger that may never be satisfied, whether it’s for food, knowledge, magic, music… But you. You could change that.”

Wensley realized, his bones indeed aching as if marking An Dagda’s words as true, that the opposite of Famine was Plenty.

“You said something about claiming champions,” Wensley said slowly, the anxiety having ebbed away sometime over the last few moments. As things fell into place, the observable pattern of it all calmed him.

“You’re clever, Wensley. You must know another war is coming. And the Earth will only survive if its champions spread whatever goodness they can before it begins in earnest.”

Only then did Wensley notice the massive club lying on the grass behind An Dagda’s back. It made him re-evaluate this friendly god of feasts. Wensley nodded as he thought it out to its logical conclusion. If one accepted angels and demons, if one accepted god and the devil, well, one would have to accept another war. Neither side had been content with the first try going pear-shaped.

He felt the skepticism he’d entered with struggling to get the last word, but he found himself so enchanted by new things to learn that he paid it little mind.

“Here,” An Dagda said, and when Wensley was able to focus he saw a great bough of silver and gold apples in the god’s big, weathered hands. “You know how this works. You take this, and you’ll be the spirit of Plenty. It’s your choice.”

Once a decision was made, Wensley would keep to it. This was no different.

He held out his hands.

* * *

“Oh, dear girl.”

Dad’s words stopped Wendy on the steps as she came down that morning, letting her hand smooth over the bannister. It felt as though the wood was impregnated with sunshine-y warmth. Every time she let herself touch it she found she wanted adventure even more than usual. Every step got her closer to going outside and into Hogback Woods.

She smoothed her dress reflexively, brushing at invisible grime. She reached up and adjusted her headband, the one with kitty ears outlined in rhinestones. Mum was always easy to be around, but Dad was another tale entirely. She felt the reflexive need to be sure she was presentable at the very least.

Dad had taken up a position near the couch. Despite the little hints at a soldier’s bearing, at the moment he looked more diffident than anything. He was in bare feet again. He wore sensible slacks and a pastel-colored jumper, reminding Wendy of her old piano teacher. He had a book in hand. Not at all unusual; Dad usually had a book with him. But the contents were unusual for him:

_A Monk’s Recounting of the Haunting at Greenhills Monastery, illustrated by Brother Francis._

“You didn’t write that, did you?” She asked. Her brain felt awash in adrenaline; evidence that her parents had existed even back in Eden (Eden was _real)_ still wouldn’t sit right. Reminders made her all too human consciousness wobble in a distressing manner indeed.

“Oh no,” Dad said, allowing himself a sly smile. “But I must appreciate the good taste in names the author’s parents had.”

They stared at each other for a moment, until Wendy couldn’t take the awkwardness anymore. She walked over like she owned the place and plucked the book out of his clutches.

“I thought you might like it,” Dad said, trying not to wring his hands and only drawing more attention to the fact that he was wringing his hands. “And it is illuminated. Would you like to read it together?”

She considered rebuffing him, scoffing like she would when Harriet was on her back about homework. But she studied his face and realized this wasn’t about trying to educate her.

“Okay,” she said, taking a seat on the couch as Dad took the spot beside her. She gave him the book again so he could open it. He did, balancing the front cover on his right knee, the back cover on her left. The pages glowed with golden ink and fanciful drawings in thin, hard black. Angelic and sinister, melded. Or in opposition?

She followed their outline with her fingertips, little devils with spears and undead women wrapped in filmy, ragged shrouds, their open mouths red with blood.

“They were trying to depict what the force doing the haunting was like,” Dad said. She cringed, only then realizing she’d been touching one of his beloved books with her bare hands. Dad didn’t react, though, and she supposed if he didn’t want her to do so he wouldn’t have opened it up on their laps like this. “But everyone swore it was something different to what the others saw.”

“I’ve heard of that before!” She exclaimed, trying not to wiggle excitedly to where it dislodged the tome. “Spirits and stuff…same ghost, but they look like whatever that person thinks a ghost should look like.”

“Mm, exactly,” he said in agreement. “The monks often incorporated a hidden crucifix symbol in their drawings so that nothing evil could seep in. Do you see it?”

She leaned in and pored over the page, trying to untangle all the intricate illustrations.

“Remember, it will be in Latin or Irish,” Dad said, his voice soft and encouraging. She kept searching, glad of her intense education for once.

_Latin. Chi. Rho. ChiRho._

She picked it out, following its intersecting lines until the whole symbol appeared. The letters tangled together until they evoked the name of Christ.

“I found it, Dad! I found it,” she repeated, tapping the spot on the text with a decisive touch.

“Well done,” Dad said, sounding as enthusiastic as if she’d just won a gold medal at the Olympics. “Shall we try to find them all?”

“Okay,” she said, excited in a way Warlock would never have allowed himself. “Let’s try it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show Zira and Wendy bonding as well, since I have devoted a lot of screen time to her and Crowley. Another very personal chapter. I hope the emotions shine through. 
> 
> I know some folx prefer to read stories with more intra-relationship angst, but it's just...not what I want to write. At least, not yet. I want things to be idyllic right up until they aren't. 
> 
> I also feel that Zira and Crowley have worked through a lot of their differences by the time this fic starts since the show really revolved around their love story and the hurtful moments that drew it out. Just my thoughts! Everyone's head canon is valid. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Yall straight up keep me going.


	12. I Spent A Single Hour With Him Alone (And Since That Hour, My Days Are Layed With Fire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira is a bit of a bastard, or what happens when an Angel sins?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter stops before it gets explicit but the next chapter definitely will be. I wil write an author notes summary about relevant plot stuff for those who prefer not to read about sex. <3
> 
> The title is a quote from L.J. Smith's Secret Circle Booklet

Crowley stumbled down the stairs, muttering under his breath about the early hour and the damn dog who had made him get out of bed in the first place. He’d miracled his pants and shirt on while fumbling to put on his leather jacket via human means. He’d also had to curse Dis to stop barking at such an ungodly hour, and while it had indeed worked Dis still pranced along like the happiest creature on god’s green earth.

"It's four in the morning you blessed idiot," Crowley grumbled, but Dis just woofed at him even though there was no sound accompanying it.

He reached the doors to the back patio and pushed them open, recoiling from the breath of freezing air that ghosted across his face. The wetlands were beautiful and he wouldn’t have moved away from them given the opportunity, but they made for very bracing early mornings.

Dis bounded out into the yard, jumping and wiggling. Crowley wandered out after him to throw Dis’ tennis ball for a while. Not that he wanted to. He hated their stupid,stupid dog. Honestly, he did.

He jammed his hands in his pockets while Dis ran after the ball, his fingers brushing the prophecy curled up there. It hid under his lighter, the keys to the cottage, a bottle of Anadin Extra (even miracles couldn’t fix his hangovers as well as Anadin Extra could), and a tube of lube (you could never be too prepared).

Best to leave Agnes’ words lie, though they were less a sleeping dog and more a fitfully drowsing six-eyed sand spider. It felt inevitable that one day, that paper would sink its fangs into his hand. From there, it would be as inevitable as his bites were to the hapless humans who managed to enrage him.

Before he could think more on it Dis barked, the curse having worn off, and bounded straight for the water.

“No, you stupid fucking mongrel! No more mud in the house!”

He shouted, his thoughts forgotten as he he raced after the dog.

* * *

  
Later that day Crowley had happily given responsibility for Dis over to Wendy, who even now was running through Hogback Woods with the Them. Meanwhile, he relished another day doing absolutely nothing; he didn’t think he’d ever get bored of lazing around their home.

Though there turned out to be some excitement after all:

While he and Aziraphale had bought or brought in many necessary items for a household to function right away, Aziraphale’s most prized personal effects made their way to the cottage in a slow but steady trickle. Crowley watched, satisfied to a deep degree every time another lovingly preserved relic from the past came in the front door. It meant Zira considered this his home, this place Crowley had crafted for him.

“What did you bring this time, Zira?” He asked, eyeing the two movers Zira had contracted with suspicion. Dis agreed with his assessment if the alert posture the dog had taken on said anything.

“Upstairs please,” Zira said to the blokes carting his collection around in nondescript cardboard boxes. “The master suite on the left.”

“I’ll show you, dearest,” Zira answered belatedly. Crowley watched him come closer. He had on a pink and navy argyle jumper that made him look like a uni professor, and a matching navy bowtie tied with the care of an expert. He still had his cream-colored coat on, but he shucked it before he caught Crowley up in an embrace.

Crowley felt himself blush a hot blush; they’d been in one another’s orbit for six thousand years and then some, but Zira’s love would never stop making him feel all gooey and silly. It emanated from Zira like a heatwave, and Crowley snuggled up to it like the cold-blooded creature he was.

He wound his arms around Zira’s neck and grinned. Before anything else could happen, however, the movers came back down the stairs. One of them cleared his throat, clearly feeling awkward at the scene unfolding. Crowley gave them a nice, cheeky get fucked gesture behind Zira’s back. They left grumbling, but with the bone-deep sense that pressing the issue would be immediately and decisively bad for their health.

Zira kissed his cheek.

“Come on then,” he said. Crowley felt Zira’s hand slip into his, and they went up the steps side by side.

Zira led him into their bedroom. Their sinfully large bed drew the eye, its heavy wrought iron head and footboard suggesting leafy fruit trees and elaborate sheet music. Gauzy ecru-colored curtains blurred the Prussian blue bedspread, and the neatly folded patchwork quilt at the foot of the bed for when Crowley struggled more than usual with feeling a chill. A collection of framed nature-themed art pieces hung on the wall over the bed, a dragonfly done in mosaic here, a butterfly composed of gemstones there.

Crowely idly considered what the headboard would look like with shackles on it until Zira tapped him on the shoulder, his face a study in fond amusement. The boxes were piled at his feet, and he looked quite tempting against the Garden of Eden triptych hung on the wall behind him.

“All right, angel. Let’s see your treasures.”

Zira knelt to open the first box.

“I don’t have that much,” he protested, though his face was lit up with enjoyment at going through these sentimental things. He lifted a folio from the inside, and even Crowley who didn’t read as a general rule knew it was priceless at just one look. The gold-leaf designs on the spine had been done by hand. Crowley could imagine the artist bent over the piece, setting each scintillating fish scale and sun’s ray with tweezers.

“Is that…?”

Zira nodded and handed him the folio. He opened the handsome hunter green cover, and wondered how many times Zira had restored age marks and other flaws. He could tell such restoration had been done by mundane means, with nary a miracle to be felt. He saw Zira in that anonymous artist’s place, patient hands rebinding the spine.

The front matter consisted of an onion-skin thin piece of paper, on which the word Hamlet was scrawled in calligraphy.

_To my dearest friend Aziraphale…_

The dedication was in a very informal hand compared to the title.

_Let not the half-remembered accountings of theatergoers fool you. This is the first folio of Hamlet, a play that would not have become known at all were it not for your support. Perhaps I should thank also the fire-haired beauty that was at your side last I laid eyes upon you; I so long for such a muse. Surely it is they that have so often overtaken your speech…did I gaze then upon my Romeo? May the end of your story be kinder._

Crowley nearly dropped the folio in shock and when he looked down at where Zira was crouched Zira looked as vivid pink as a flamingo. Zira hadn’t looked away, though, and his gaze was aflame with love and a kind of certainty he had so rarely allowed himself before Heaven and Hell had turned their backs.

“Surely he’s kidding,” Crowley spluttered.

_It is the East, and Juliet is the sun._

“I rather think not,” Zira said, too mild. Crowley's mind continued to oblige him for relevant quotes:

_Believe me, love. Twas the nightingale._

“Well, fuck.” Crowley said, shaking his head and drawing reverent fingers over the cover.

“I thought we might put it beside the bed,” Zira offered. They had a couple of smaller bookcases on either side. Only the most beloved tomes made it to a home there. One of Crowley’s favorite plants, a massive calathea ornata, sat atop the bookcase beside Aziraphale’s side of the bed, as if guarding the books there.

And if Crowley praised it effusively for doing so when no one was watching, well. That was his business. (When the plant had been particularly good, its leaves especially glossy, he let it watch Big Dreams, Small Spaces on the flatscreen).

“Sounds good to me, angel,” Crowley tried, though he was still reeling from the revelation that he’d helped directly influence a play he’d seen hundreds of times. “Wait a mo, that means you were talking to bloody _Will Shakespeare_ about _me_?”

Zira paused. He’d knelt again to look through the rest of the items in the boxes, but he had the grace to stop and appear embarrassed at Crowley’s question.

“Well…” He said, drawing the word out. That was as good as a confession. Crowley threw his hands up as if exasperated, but the absolutely molten blush on his cheeks probably gave him away instantly.

“My dear,” Zira said. The angel had a smile on his face now, that certainty he’d had so much of recently making his eyes smolder and his expression direct. “Do you think it so strange that you could inspire such poetry?”

Crowley froze. Zira got to his feet and came towards him, and all Crowley could do was stare. Zira reached out to cup his cheek, the kind of entirely simple, tender gesture that made him feel as if his tightly wound coils were relaxing all at once.

“If I had the imagination, I’d write more than a single play about you,” Zira told him, stepping into his orbit more fully. “I could spend the rest of eternity trying to capture you, and I fear I would still fall short.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, his voice far too weak to make the command stick. Zira smiled and leaned in for a kiss, a soft yet entirely entrancing thing that stole what few words Crowley did have left.

“No, dearest. I don’t think I shall,” Zira said, and Crowley audibly gulped as the Name emblazoned on his soul lit up like a halo and poured pure energy into him. “Let me show you something?”

“Anything,” Crowley said. What was happening to his mind? He’d never felt so speechless, so quiet and empty. Anxiety, restlessness, the urge to flee, all purged.

“You know how much I cherish your Love,” Zira said, the angel’s hands fully in his hair now, their faces so close that it was nothing for Zira to keep kissing him whenever the fancy took him (which was often, and with feeling). “And you know how much I return it. But…I thought you might appreciate a Vice.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot into his hair. Oh. Oh yes, he thought. That covetousness he’d sensed from Zira some days ago now…it had been far more delicious than any earthly thing he’d ever bothered to eat. A gift of such magnitude that he could scarcely believe it; Zira could have hidden behind his Grace forever and chose not to. For him.

“Show me.”


	13. Your Sword Stuck Throbbing In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants to own Crowley in every way possible. This time, it's through sinister means. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Henlo all! I promised to write a plot summary for those who don't prefer to read sex and/or bdsm. Please check the author notes at the end first! I truly hope you enjoy this chapter because oh my GOD did I work on this thing. One might say I slaved over it. :P 
> 
> \--
> 
> thank you all so much for loving this story as much as I do. I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on this one. I have to release it into the wild because otherwise I will mess with it till the end of time.

Zira grabbed him, so fast Crowley would have stumbled back had Zira not anchored him by the front of his shirt. Before Crowley knew it he’d been pushed backward onto the bed, and Zira was crawling over him, holding him there. Zira pinned his wrists over his head. Crowley had no time to be surprised; Zira leaned down to bite an aching mark into the flesh of his exposed throat, just the way he had when they’d fucked in the backseat of the Bentley.

No less forceful Crowley felt Zira’s essence grasp the Name in an unyielding hand, making his whole body tense as on the verge of orgasm but at least twice as intense as any mundane human could have stood. His vision whited out and he had to focus with every little part of his being to keep his eyes on the real world, though when it was Zira’s face looking down at him it gave him a very good reason to try. 

He and Zira had a bond deeper than any human could comprehend; Crowley could feel what Zira intended as if Zira's thoughts were his -mostly, anyway. Zira's metaphysical hand traced the contours and edges of the brand, a loving yet quite wicked caress. It reminded him by force that Zira's Name was written on his soul. Crowley found himself already on the verge of begging, and wasn't _that_ pathetic?

Zira's intention was to own him. Clear as day. He said nothing. The last thing he wanted was for this to stop. 

“Yes?” Zira whispered, the angel’s adoring gaze raking over him. 

“Yes,” Crowley said. From the way Zira’s ethereal aura rippled he could tell Zira's Vices were clamoring for release. Yet Zira staved them off. Waiting until Crowley gave him the go-ahead to release them. Crowley's heart fluttered its wings like a starling caught in a briar. 

Covetousness, jealousy, and no small part Wrath crashed into his being, the channels Zira had carved within his sense of self filling with infernal fire. As much as the celestial signature marked him as belonging to Zira, _this_ proved it. It snarled where the Name exulted, it growled and threatened and raged. It was made of knife cuts, marked out in lacerations. It was made of Mine, of Ownership, of Fury at anyone else showing Crowley the slightest avarice. 

He knew then that Aziraphale, who had never actually killed anything, would have killed for him. And that Zira was at best fifty-fifty on whether it would even bother him to do so. 

“Oh, I’m all yours,” Crowley breathed. A kind of pleasure reverberated through him that even he, an eternal being, could scarce comprehend. Zira’s thumbs bit into his wrists, and Crowley struggled because it was his instinct to do so. Something from his reptile brain, trying to tell him that danger lurked a scant few inches away. 

“Still yourself, serpent, or I’ll make you,” Zira said, in the same sweet tone he used to offer Crowley a cup of cocoa. Which made the threat all the more real and terrifying. Someone’s sake, Zira would have made a horrifying demon. The proof as far as Crowley was concerned was in the fact that he really _wanted_ to obey Zira’s commands. “And don’t you dare change forms.”

He’d been halfway to doing just that (if only to be a contrary shit) when the command stilled him and forced him to stay in his human corporation. Zira gave him an approving look, and his heart nearly beat out of his ribcage, frantic for freedom from the thorns. 

There was no true posturing to Zira when Zira was this way. Usually, he was full of the same angelic kindness as always, even if lately he’d been so possessive as to mark Crowley’s soul with a celestial brand. 

But _usually,_ Zira wasn’t brimming over with Vice, either, and Crowley realized then the fullness of the gift. So long, all those many millennia where Zira had tried so, so hard to be perfect, a flawless beacon of Virtue. But he showed the truth of it all now, without a second thought. 

“I’d like to bind your hands, my dear,” Zira told him, gaze boring into him as he lay stretched out and vulnerable. 

“Anything you want,” Crowley managed. He could hear his own words, how his voice was rough with anticipation and the thrill of fear. He drank of that fear the way he drank wine while sprawled on Zira’s couch back at the bookshop. He could hardly explain how he adored being frightened in this context; it was something about how Zira would never actually, truly hurt him.

Zira produced rope with a minor miracle. The cords were angel-white, of course. Zira drew the first loop tight around his wrists and Crowley jerked and gasped; the ropes were blessed. Not so much that they would eat through his skin, but certainly enough to sting and abrade. 

Zira paused, looking at him for a long moment. Time for him to bow out, if he wanted. He considered it. Zira in the grip of his base emotions made dread drop into his stomach and rattled his chains the way Lucifer had at the airfield. 

He nodded instead, prompting Zira to continue. Already the pain was making him hard, and while normally he would have been able to control it he was already so altered it was as if he had no powers at all. Zira drew the ropes tight again and the burst of agony made the room disappear for a moment as his corporation tried to accept and absorb the sensation. 

Zira tied his bound wrists to the headboard, so expertly Crowley made a mental note to interrogate his angel later about where he’d picked up skills like this. 

With a casual snap of Zira’s fingers, he found himself nude. Every flaw, all his undesirable traits on display so that his shame felt obscene. Too bony, too many sharp edges. But he dared to look at Zira for a moment, and he felt as though it was Zira’s turn to stop time. Zira’s face betrayed thoughts and emotions so readily. It was a look Crowley had only seen on Zira’s face after they’d seen the Pieta at the Basilica. 

Worship. It was worship. 

Zira made him watch as Zira undid the obligatory bow-tie and tugged his jumper off. Crowley felt as if his attention were glued to the scene, watching Zira strip. He undid the buttons of his shirt, fastidious no matter the occasion, and folded it before setting it on the bookcase behind him. Perhaps humans tended to grow tired of one another - though how they could with such short lives baffled Crowley - but he reacted as if it were the first time he'd seen Zira like this. 

Zira crossed the distance between them. Crowley groaned at the feel of Zira’s hands, as if the two of them had already been going at it for hours. Zira explored his taut body with that angelic touch of his, the one that sparked and flared against Crowley’s skin. He felt as though it must have left burns, reddened evidence of Zira’s claim. He writhed, craving more but a slave to the position he’d been put in. He would have to hope Zira would take pity on him. 

_Not bloody likely._

He felt Zira’s soft, sweet mouth on his snake tattoo. He jerked as much as he could, never prepared for having the mark touched. It felt as though Zira had just casually reached into his very essence. It left him breathless and unraveled his mind further and further, like someone taking a scrub brush to a burnt out house. 

Or if one prefers a gentler analogy (as Zira would have, had he known the full extent of Crowley’s inner musings): every time they did something like this, his thoughts slipped by as if carried away by a mild mid-morning current. 

Zira moved lower, lavishing attention on the shell of his ear, the sensitive spots below and behind it. Already he was panting like he’d gone into heat at Zira’s attentions (could that happen? _that_ was a thought for later). His body shifted of its own accord so more and more snake features leaked through (though he would never dream of changing forms completely, not after being ordered not to). His belly was crimson with scales, and he knew his throat had gone black with the same. 

Rather than reacting with disgust, Zira thoroughly licked and kissed all of those glistening candy-apple-red scales. With Vices burning through his veins, there was no hesitation or awkwardness in him; he did whatever he liked, when he liked. 

It inspired awe in Crowley the way nothing else ever had. 

The attention made Crowley squirm, his wrists gripped all the more by the ropes as he moved. The holy thread in the weave sent shocks of electricity down his arms that went right to his dick. The dick that was all but betraying him at this point, with how blessed hard it was.

And how untouched, with Zira deliberately avoiding it. 

“Evil,” he grumbled, deliberately chafing his wrists against the bindings. It felt different from Zira taking him apart while fully angelic, but he craved their sensation anyway. Pain brought on by blessings was to be savored. 

Zira looked up at him. While his eyes were still blue ringed with silver, they were darker than usual. They looked nigh on black, in fact. Crowley’s mouth went dry at their sheer abhorrence, his demon self responding with passion while his more human side felt the overwhelming need to flee. 

“Perhaps,” Zira told him in a lofty tone. Crowley felt divinity surge inside him at that until he cried out brokenly, the sudden influx of Grace stirring his mind like a clever cook standing over a bubbling pot. It hadn’t come from Zira per se; he was too far gone.The meager shard marked ~Raphael~ grew like a binary star until he was fairly vibrating with it. 

_Is this what balancing one another is? He flirts with evil, and I rise to divinity?_

“Zira, I’m begging you,” he said between gritted teeth, the torture of having his release denied stringing every nerve as tight as piano wire. Golden energy filled him like a generous pour of good wine in a wineglass, until the sheer bounty made his cup overflow. He could only guess at what it might be doing to their surroundings. 

“Oh please do, my dear,” Zira said, sitting up so that he wasn’t touching Crowley at all. “Let’s hear what you have to say, my beloved serpent.” 

“Slap me, come on my face, pull my hair,” Crowley said in a rush, squirming as much as was possible with his wrists tied to the headboard. Zira covered him, crawling over to straddle his hips and steal a kiss from his desperate mouth. “Fuck me so it takes me days to recover. Put your cock so deep down my throat I can’t breathe. Anything, anything, anything.” 

Zira’s fingers slipped into his hair, he thought, but before he could register it Zira yanked his head hard to the side. He felt Zira’s teeth a moment later, leaving another punishing bite mark on the part of his neck that was still human. He heard his own ragged cry as the pleasure struck deep, the following suffering as if the ropes were tied around his balls instead of his wrists. 

Zira licked at the edge of his scales. His eyes welled up with tears, the human and animal stimulation at once forcing emotion upon him that he had no hope of containing. He allowed himself to cry -though really he had no choice - the tears hot when they tracked down his cheeks. Zira pressed another kiss to his lips, a gentle thing that asked him without words whether the tears were good or bad. 

Even caught up in his Vices, Zira was so careful not to hurt him. Not the way a torturer would have, where the objective was to break him with no thought about putting him back together again. It made Crowley’s corporation feel like a too-tight costume; the channel between their souls ran molten silver with mutual adoration. 

He half-expected the hand across his face, but it drove the breath from him in an instant all the same. Zira had placed his other hand on the opposing side, bracing his head, but the blow still sunk him all the more into that headspace that occurred when Zira took control of him like this. 

He hoped it left a mark. 

Zira’s hands slipped lower, tightening on his neck until he was gasping for each breath in. A scouring euphoria filled him, until he was so replete with it he felt as if he had no choice but to let it spill into every last hidden corner, vein, and cell. Zira’s nails raking mercilessly over his ribs drew another cry from him, or it would have if he didn’t have his teeth clenched so tightly he could all but hear them grind against one another. 

Crowley felt his legs being urged apart and he willingly went along with it, baring his intimate places without hesitation. Zira’s finger traveled the length of his cock, making Crowley lift his hips again. Zira’s free hand forced him back to the mattress with a strength he often forgot the angel possessed. 

The pad of Zira’s thumb found the head of his cock, tracing it, finding the ridge where the head met the shaft and teasing it. Crowley could feel himself leaking an ungodly amount of precome and he couldn’t help but thrash, more like a snake than a human. 

He chanted Zira’s name mindlessly, his hair damp with sweat, his thighs twitching with the power of even the tiniest caresses. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Zira looked up immediately, studying his face for evidence of a truly meant no. Crowley shook his head; he wanted this even though it frightened him, the thought of being taken to the edge again and again. Zira, satisfied, returned his attention to his task. 

As soon as Crowley felt Zira’s tongue travel the length of his cock, he was so close to coming he didn’t think he could hold it back. Zira stopped and gripped the base of his cock in an unforgiving grip, forcing the orgasm back. Crowley all but screamed, his whole body reacting as if he’d had a jolt of pure cocaine. 

He was babbling. But he couldn’t make sense of his own words, his hearing blown out, his eyes crossing with the sheer intensity. Zira didn’t stop, either, lapping at the precome currently turning him into a sticky mess. He felt Zira’s nails dig into his inner thighs, then his mouth slipped down and followed. He marked each expanse of skin, with bites so deep and sudden Crowley was all but howling at the end. 

He could sense how much Zira loved his pain. In a state such as Zira was in, the angel drank down the satisfaction of hurting him like an expensive mellow scotch, meant for savoring. Zira sucked his balls, drawing each into his angel’s wicked mouth. It was too much. He broke, trying to hold back the second orgasm he’d built up to in moments. 

“Please Zira,” he all but cried. “Please, I’m begging you.”

Zira moved away and sat up enough to look at him. 

“I’m not even close to done with you, dearest,” he said, in that mild tone that perversely made him sound proper villainous. 

His balls ached, drawn in close against his body. His wrists burned; so did his soul. It was as if Zira were tracing the Name the same way Zira’s fingers and tongue had teased his cock. It pulsed inside him, uncurling to envelop every part of him. It reminded him that he was…what was it? A slave? Property? 

_A pet?_

Zira was back at torturing him, this time with slick fingers pressing into his asshole. He didn’t expect it and that made the shout torn from his throat all the more ragged and helpless. His dick went right back to being so hard it hurt, a terrible ache settling into his belly, his thighs, sending unfurling tendrils of torment into his chest. He could hardly breathe, twisting against his bonds. All he managed to do was hurt himself further, but he had to get away somehow. Not even a demon could bear this! 

He felt the beginnings of an orgasm pulsing inside him, and he could only hope Zira would take pity on him this time. A quick, cursed burst of power took care of the rest of Zira's clothes. Zira reclaimed his fingers and grabbed him by the hips, lifting him up and sinking into him with no preamble. 

“Don’t you dare, Crowley,” Zira whispered, gasping when he was balls deep. “I see the look on your face.” 

“Zira, you’re _persecuting_ me here,” he mumbled, hot all over and filled completely. He couldn't stop himself from trembling, and he had to fight for each word. “Trying to get me to see the error of my demonic ways? Because it’s working.” 

“No. I’m mistreating you for my own enjoyment,” Zira said matter of factly. The demonic quality of such an answer made him tighten up hard around the base of Zira’s cock. Jesus Christ, what had come over his angel? The sweetest being he’d ever known? Zira did always have a little bastardly streak in him, a lone fruit tree in the middle of a barren field. 

_This is the whole damn orchard!_

Zira pounded into him as if to underscore the statement -he’d just _said it,_ like it was perfectly normal, like he had no shame at all about it _-_ purposefully teasing his prostate as much as he could. It made Crowley see white for the second time in as many minutes and inhuman sounds poured from his throat as he fought his hardest to keep from coming. God it hurt, hurt so much that he thought he was going mad with it. 

Zira had the cheek to come inside him, leaving his cock untouched, hard as a rock against his stomach. 

The holy, smoldering heat that came from Zira’s come almost tipped him over the edge face-first into another orgasm, and only a hasty demonic miracle kept it from happening. He’d spent the only scraps of cursed energy he had on it. He couldn’t even beg, speech stolen from him. He made sounds better suited to an animal, his eyes squeezed closed, his heels dug into the mattress. 

“Poor thing,” Zira said, “I’ve been cruel to you, and you’ve been very good. Do you deserve a reward, do you think?” 

“Please,” he managed, in a hoarse whisper. “Aziraphale. Please.” 

Zira smiled and withdrew from Crowley’s abused body. He slid down, and the closer he came to Crowley’s cock the more nonsensical pleading spilled from Crowley’s throat, a throat raw from screaming. 

Crowley felt Zira’s mouth, the slow slide as the angel swallowed every last inch of him. Crowley could have come easily just from that, but Zira controlled him so completely now that he couldn't imagine doing much of anything without permission. 

Zira built him up to the absolute peak once more, Zira’s hand cupping and squeezing his balls, Zira’s warm throat open to take all of him again and again. 

Finally, Zira closed his lips tight around the base of Crowley’s cock. Crowley fucked his throat and Zira accepted it all. When he came he went slack in his bonds as the pleasure swept over him like a black wave sinking a ship. He felt Zira swallow and a meek, wrecked whimper fell from his lips. 

Zira pulled away and looked at him with mischief dancing in his storm-cloud eyes. 

“Can you take more, my dearest pet?” 

Crowley trembled, already feeling so utterly destroyed he didn’t know if he could bear whatever Zira had in mind for him next. And yet, god, he wanted to find out. Wanted all of his limits pushed, wanted to be sweet and beloved and _owned._

“More,” he whispered, shocked at himself. 

“All right,” Zira agreed, slapping Crowley’s thigh hard so that he startled and yelped. “A cunt, if you please.” 

Crowley obliged, as perfect a cunt as he could dream up. Zira lit up at the sight of the pink confection he’d decided on, framed with fire-red curls. Apparently he’d done well since Zira all but dove into it, enjoying it as if it were scratch-made whipped cream. Crowley wailed at the feel of Zira’s tongue on his throbbing clit and sensitive folds. 

“Come as much as you like, pet,” Zira told him, having pulled away for a bare second. His voice was husky with Lust. At first, it felt like a relief to be told he could come as much as he wanted after being denied for so long, but then he realized what Zira was playing at. 

This would be worse than being denied. 

Zira’s efforts made the first orgasm simplicity itself. The second Zira started sucking on his clit his whole being shone with the sheer ardor crackling in the air between the two of them. The warmth of it made him realize the cold he lived with on a daily basis, in contrast to this blazing fire. 

_So this is what mastery feels like._

Zira didn’t let up, wrenching another orgasm from Crowleys too-sensitive clit. He knew what would happen next, but the reality of Zira sliding two fingers into his cunt still made him jerk, violently against the ropes. Zira’s fingers found the bundle of nerves inside him without even having to try.

This orgasm made him squirt everywhere, soaking the sheets and Zira’s face; even his angelic-pale hair looked a little damp. Zira lapped up as much of the come as he could, licking Crowley all but dry and prolonging the pleasure to unspeakable heights. 

Zira’s fingers didn’t let up either, filling Crowley with a sensation not unlike being full of static electricity; his nerves were so overworked they were sending garbled signals, forking into his brain and spine and the tips of his toes. 

“I can’t,” Crowley all but mewled, “no more. Please, Zira.” 

He didn’t mean it. Or rather he did, but not enough to call a halt to what was happening. Zira looked up, to analyze whether he wanted to stop. Never had Zira failed to do so at words such as those, and a tender love threaded itself through the torment. 

He shook his head. Some part of him needed to protest and beg. Zira smiled at him. It was a striking combination of Zira's usual kind smile, and a capacity for evil no one but him would have guessed lurked inside his angel. It terrified him, but his body responded to that terror with more Lust, even though his mind felt as if someone had rung a bell right beside his ear. 

“I’d like to fuck that pretty cunt of yours,” Zira said, stretching out on hands and knees so Zira’s body covered his once more. Zira kissed him, deepened it so he could taste his own come. Zira’s cock was nestled in the space between his inner thigh and the full mound of his cunt, as rigid as a sword-blade. 

“Yes,” Crowley whispered, opening his legs wide without having to be prompted.

Zira entered him with no resistance; he was so wet it couldn’t possibly be easier to fit that thick cock inside him. Zira was so hard and had such girth that it felt like being opened up by an entirely unforgiving whip handle, even considering how fucked out he was. He drew it deep inside him, tried to trap it there and work its length so expertly Zira couldn’t help but heap praise on him. 

“So sweet,” Zira said against the hollow of his throat. “You know, I’ve had desserts beyond any human’s wildest dreams.”

Zira punctuated his sentence with deep thrusts that hit every one of Crowley’s most sensitive spots. 

“I’ve had everything, from kanafeh in Mesopotamia - I would have liked to share that with you - to soufflé in Marie Antoinette’s court, flecked with lavender and smelling of orange water.”

Crowley hung on every word, his thighs pressed tight to Zira’s sides, his feet curled up and slipping against Zira’s legs every time he and Zira moved together. The ropes hadn’t stopped scorching from the start, and the deep, searing pain had been his first doorway to the mental state he sought. He welcomed their agony, would take it again and again as long as Zira kept fucking him.

Then the torture had started, a lesson on feast or famine that had inscribed itself on him, as if he were blank parchment meeting the sting of a quill pen for the first time. Finally, Zira’s praise pushed him right over the edge. Except _this_ fall ended with his mind free of anxiety and a feeling of relaxation so profound he went limp in his bonds, cherishing the sensation of flying. 

“But,” Zira continued, his voice the only thing that mattered. “You are the most memorable treat I have ever devoured. Sweeter than rosewater, more complex than the finest chocolate.”

Crowley managed to focus on Zira. He got a blurred image of Zira’s expression as Zira looked at him with pure, undisguised adoration. 

“Now make me come, pet,” Zira murmured, and a new wave of energy made Crowley do just that. He wasn’t experienced at fucking, but his instincts knew what to do, how to squeeze Zira’s cock just right, how to move. He had his angel tense and standing on the precarious edge in no time, a fact he was rather proud of. 

“Please, I want it,” he said, and that was enough for Zira to fill him with come, enough that he fancied he could feel it. Zira’s fingers on his clit were unexpected, and the orgasm took him by surprise even as Zira pulsed inside him. He muffled a scream against Zira’s shoulder, sure he would be pulled apart by the talons of ecstasy until there was precious little of him left. 

Once Zira pulled out of him he waited, exhausted right down to his soul. Zira undid the ropes and winced, catching one of his wrists in as light a grip as could be mustered. 

“Oh my darling, I’m so sorry,” Zira said in that regretful tone he used whenever guilt had pierced him deep. 

“Sorry?” Crowley muttered, half asleep already. “Wa’for?” 

“These burns are more serious than I anticipated,” Zira said, turning his wrist this way and that to inspect it.

“Not dangerous?”

“No, love. I would _never_ bring any such thing near you. It’s just, it must hurt terribly.”

Crowley almost laughed in Zira’s face. After everything they’d done, the angel was fretting over a couple of burns? 

“That's the whole point,” Crowley mumbled, closing his eyes and settling into the pillows under him. He sighed, feeling every ache and pain but as if they belonged to someone else. He was vaguely aware that it would all be a special kind of agony in the morning, but he couldn’t think that far ahead. “C’mere.”

The desire to be cuddled and wrapped up in a warm blanket became overwhelming in an instant, but Zira was there to answer the need before it became prickly. Zira miracled away the evidence of their sins and tucked the feather-down duvet around the both of them, moving in close to take him into an embrace. 

Maybe later he’d be embarrassed by it all, or it would cause some kind of horrid regret. But for now everything seemed as it should be, the puzzle of the universe completing itself to reveal a perfect sunset.

* * *

That morning, Crowley woke with everything in his body on fire. He groaned, trying to stretch out before anything cramped. Aziraphale woke in seconds; he might belong to Aziraphale, but that meant that Aziraphale was also beholden to his needs. And could feel them, apparently. 

“Tch,” Aziraphale said, scolding himself. “I pushed you too hard, darling. I’m so sorry.”

There was nothing demonic in Aziraphale now -Crowley of all people could tell, just from hearing Zira speak - so there were plenty of cracks for self-recrimination to seep through. 

“Nu uh,” was about all Crowley could manage. He wouldn’t have traded what they did for anything, no matter the consequences. “Just hard enough.”

He said, mustering up a weak grin. Aziraphale’s face came into being as he squinted against the bright light of morning. Zira looked like the human equivalent of wringing one’s hands, his eyes back to normal and now filled with remorse. “Bring me the bottle of Anadin Extra in my jacket pocket. It’ll have me back to rights in no time.”

Zira got up and went to where his coat had ended up the night before (the armchair by the window) though by the sound of his footsteps Crowley could tell he was reluctant to leave. Even a walk across the bloody room had the angel worried. Crowley reached up to pop his jaw, then all of his fingers. He couldn’t look that bad, could he?

He heard Zira rustling about in his pockets. He felt uneasy from one moment to the next, but he was moving and thinking so slowly he couldn’t quite put together why he might be having such an odd reaction.

At least until Zira said: “Darling, what is this?”

He found the strength to bolt upright, terror turning his blood into boiling acid. 

“Zira, put it back,” he begged. “It’s not important. It…”

Zira looked as though someone had thrust a pike through his solar plexus, stricken to his core. Time slowed to an agonizing pace, and Crowley could do nothing but watch the angel read Agnes’ words, once, twice. Again. 

“Oh Crowley,” Zira gasped, covering his mouth with one trembling hand. “No. I — “ Zira all but collapsed into the armchair, pinching the prophecy with his fingers as though it were an unpleasant insect trying to bite him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is from Allen Ginsberg's poem Please Master 
> 
> Zira ties Crowley up and has his way with him, basically. Resulting in Zira's claim as Crowley's owner becoming all the stronger. The morning after Zira accidentally finds the prophecy Crowley has been hiding in Crowley's jacket pocket.


	14. Deep To My Heart, Deep To My Core (I Can Feel The Scourging)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley aren't as forgotten about as they had hoped. A rude reminder comes bearing roses.

I found this set of pics on tumblr. [This dog](https://little-wolf-white-peacock.tumblr.com/post/189243147728/blinded-by-wanderlust-lake-district-2-holy) looks exactly like Dis!

* * *

After he and Zira had cried themselves to sleep, Crowley slithered out of bed that morning feeling as sluggish as a snake in snow. He felt like the lilly law had beat him with a sock stuffed with Alexander the Great’s treasury. It wasn’t so different from waking up after an epic bender. The kind that left you with a weight on your back and a brick in your stomach.

He felt…

 _Dead,_ his traitorous mind whispered. 

So his mind? No better than the rest of him. His skull felt like a dirty glass a barkeep had drained the bar mats into, and his hair looked how his head felt. He tried to comb it back with his fingers with fair to middling success. He grumbled when his cowlicks wouldn’t cooperate.

He didn’t have the anger or the self-possession he needed to force his hair to behave via infernal means. He felt too numb, too leaden. Not conducive to ordering his world as he had become so accustomed to doing, where things did as he liked with little more than a glance and a snap of his fingers. Where things worked simply because he expected they would. 

He noted that at some point the other items that had been delivered to the house had ordered themselves via miracle. So like his angel. The desire to deal with the utter mess the prophecy had foretold by creating some semblance of order. As if he were making a rude gesture at fate. Even if it was just doing the dishes and decorating, so simple and mundane. Even if he’d done it with a miracle while half asleep. 

Zira’s sword from when he was a Knight of the Round Table had found a place on one of the bookshelves across from the bed. He recognized it despite only ever glimpsing it in passing. Immaculate as the day it was forged, it lay proud and stately on its display stand. 

It had a multicolored beast - somewhere between a fearsome dragon and a massive serpent - and a white lion coiled around the cross-guard and down to the blade. Their mouths were open as if they were both about to breathe fire down the length of the sword. Their tails entwined to protect the hand of the wielder. 

It was impossible to tell if the two creatures were in opposition, or united in cooperation. 

It was certainly no common knight’s blade. He could tell just by the presence the blade had, even before noticing the many physical details that confirmed the assumption. He held his palm over it, but not daring to touch. Owning something like this, well, it was the sort of thing Arthur looked for in a man. He wanted his closest champions to be worthy, worthy to hold a blade that had the powers of Heaven and Hell inside it. That they could manage the magic inside and bend it to the will of the Table Round. 

A flicker of power rippled along the pads of his fingers. It was as if the beasts depicted so meticulously in gold and gems were slumbering, and had roused for a bare moment at his proximity. 

He didn’t know much about what Aziraphale was up to in those days. He made a mental note to ask. The weapon implied so much more than he had assumed, though he managed a smile at the sight regardless. Even if their encounter in that misty forest hadn’t gone nearly as well as he had hoped. 

Some voice hidden deep in the quagmire of his mind wondered if that would be the sword to cut him down, one day. 

_Come on, Crowley, you sad sack. It doesn’t have to be so literal, does it? Agnes didn’t exactly write in plain language. Hells it could mean, I don't know. I drop the toast marmalade side down or something one morning and Aziraphale threatens to kill me with the butter knife._

He pulled his clothes on (sans shoes and jacket) and, pronouncing the outfit serviceable, went downstairs. A quick burst of power and the clothes were clean and tailored again. No sense in letting one's sense of fashion go to the wayside, no matter how shit your circumstances. 

Dis lay curled up on the couch asleep. His floofy tail wagged as if he were dreaming about never-ending walks and chasing foxes that never tired and endless games of fetch. Yet when he whistled Dis wasted no time; the dog perked up right away and ran over to him. 

“No, you terrible mutt. Don’t touch me.”

Crowley backed away. Dis responded by licking Crowley’s hand, then jumping up on his back legs to press his paws right against Crowley’s shirt. He panted a lungful of noxious dog breath into Crowley’s face. 

“Excuse me! That shirt is made of the finest silk, I’ll have you know. Now, do you want to go outside or not?”

Dis knew the word outside. He proved it by the way he turned in an excited circle and woofed before bounding over to the door to the patio. He cocked his head, his tongue hanging out and a stupid grin on his face. Crowley managed at least the semblance of an annoyed sigh. Though, his supposed aggravation didn’t keep him from following Dis out into the grass. 

* * *

“Sign please.”

Wendy eyed the box in the delivery person’s arms. Long and red, it was clearly meant for roses. She couldn’t figure why anyone here would need to get flowers delivered, considering how lush their gardens were. Mum never missed a chance to go out and put the plants in their place. And, when Mum wasn’t looking, Dad meandered into the garden and lavished praise on those same plants. It must be working; the specimens they'd chosen were nothing short of spectacular.

It did sort of seem like the kind of move Dad would have gone for, but considering he didn’t even cook his own food (yet. she kept threatening to teach him) it made her wonder why he couldn’t just miracle up something romantic for Mum instead of waiting for an order to be delivered. And Mum would have given Dad something he’d grown himself. 

Still, she took a step forward and tried to peer under the delivery person’s hat. The face underneath was only partially visible, blurred by shadow no matter how she cut her gaze against its stony mysteries. 

“I…” She managed, but her tongue was all but welded to the roof of her mouth and she couldn’t finish the thought. Before she knew it she was stood there with the pen ready to sign, watching her own actions from far away. She moved to touch the pen to paper. At the last moment something made her look up again, the — _quill pen?_ — dripping red ink onto the form. 

A snake dropped from the brim of the hat and regarded her with beady, baleful eyes. She backed up slowly, too slow. She wasn’t afraid of snakes (things would have been awkward indeed if that were the case), but this one made her wail at the top of her lungs. 

The delivery person’s teeth elongated, the hat tossed aside as hair made of a hundred squirming vipers pushed it away. The uniform became a dress wet with blood. Leathery skin flowed down to their hands, wicked black claws flexing. The thing’s hide was all gray now, ridged and bumpy as if the skin itself could be counted as a piece of armor. It had wings like a bat, the patagia stretching as the creature tried to leap across the threshold of the cottage.

Dried crimson roses went everywhere.

The monster's shriek reverberated through the house, an unholy sound from the deepest pits of Hell. A bludgeon of heat hit her in the stomach; it was as if the creature had come to Earth carrying all the boiling misery of its home realm with it. It writhed under their skin, the way the snakes writhed on their head.

The wards that Aziraphale had placed previous made the monster pause. Those few seconds gave Wendy the time to skitter into the kitchen. She snatched the big chef’s knife on the drainboard by the sink and the boiling pot of tea water on the hob. She took the top off the pot with unsteady fingers and tried her best to regulate her breathing. Panic wouldn’t help. 

“Oi!” Mum’s voice, incensed that their sanctuary had been breached. “Get the Hell out of our house, Tisiphone!” 

Wendy ran back to the sitting room, clutching her improvised weapons as the wards exploded into shards of celestial crystal. Her heart was going double-time like it was a hunting hound trying to leap ahead towards vulnerable game without her, like she was still stood there struggling with her rifle. Mum transformed in front of her, but this time he didn’t turn into a serpent as such. This, she felt sure, was his real form. 

A moment later she knew she was right; the sheer eldritch essence as he shed his human guise almost knocked her unconscious. She slumped to the ground, barely managing to keep the kettle from spilling all over her as she watched the incomprehensible blaze of black and red scales strike across the distance between him and Tisiphone. 

Mum's wings ate into the matter of the universe. Too big for the house, they strained to be unfurled. The laws of physics could go fuck themselves. She heard glass shatter, though her head felt like it had been pushed into St. James pond and held there; the sound came through distorted and intermittent. 

The air turned arid and hot as if they were all standing in the heart of a star. 

_You were raised by a demon and an angel,_ she told herself, sitting propped up against the doorjamb that lead to the kitchen. She cast about for her weapons, and let out a long exhale when they came to her again. There was a frightful crash as the battle raged through the living room. Mum and Tisiphone overturned the couch, then hit the coffee table. It exploded into splinters. Rose petals littered the carpet.

_Oh my god, Dad is going to be so pissed off._

She forced herself to her feet and then forced herself to focus. Tisiphone reminded her of a giant hornet, the kind that could take out a whole beehive in under twenty seconds; malice stiffened their ligaments and tendons so that they crouched over Mum just like a remorseless insect. Wendy imagined pinning Tisiphone to a display board while still alive, shoving the pin right through their middle and twisting for emphasis. 

Mum thrashed, managing to jerk free of one of the claws keeping him pinned. Before Wendy knew it she’d flung the kettle at Tisiphone, striking their head and shoulder. The creature shrieked and a terrible Hellish weeping rose up as several of the snakes on their head died in agony. Blisters raised on Tisiphone's foul hide. Wendy was allowed only a moment of triumph before the thing turned to look at her.

She froze, a rabbit staring at an owl. She knew she would die here, cowering. Moving out of range wasn’t even an option. It was like being a doll so overstuffed with filler the legs wouldn’t move anymore. 

“Fuck that,” Mum ground out between his clenched teeth, coiling and then leaping at Tisiphone again. They went down in a heap, Mum striking over and over to where she could all but smell the venom. Tisiphone’s claws dug once more into Mum’s underbelly and she couldn’t help a scream at the sight of arterial blood spurting all over everything. Blood in and of itself was nothing. Blood belonging to someone she cared about…

She snarled and ran forward on feet so light that no one, including her, realized what she was doing until it was done. A rose burst apart under her heel. She crawled up Tisiphone’s back, gagging at the smell of their ruined dress dripping gore. She dug the knife into their shoulder joint and clung to the handle for dear life, barely avoiding Tisiphone’s snapping jaws or the nest of snakes atop Tisiphone’s head. 

Blisters popped and Tisiphone's skin split, ichor welling up. She couldn’t cling to the knife forever. That much was already obvious even before that abhorrent substance flowing from Tisiphone's injuries started to trickle over her skin. But maybe it would be enough, this wound. Even if it just slowed them down, she would count it as a victory. 

_Just a little longer. Dad will come._

Mum had his jaws closed like the grip of a vengeful phantom on Tisiphone’s throat, a wild look in his blazing eyes and a rose tangled in his hair. He’d traded claw for claw, scrabbling for purchase and piercing deep when he found a vulnerable spot. But Tisiphone had the advantage. Already they had plunged so far into Mum's entrails Wendy couldn't see their hand anymore.

Only later would she realize she’d been shouting denials at a volume that should have alerted the whole village, made shrill by the torment of Tisiphone's ichor eating down to her bones.

 _We’re both going to die here,_ she thought. Tisiphone twisted between her and Mum like they were trying to corral a wild mustang. In the middle of such chaos, Wendy had no hope of noticing the teeth needling into her arm until she was long past doing something about it. The darkness creeping up on her didn’t scare her. Funny. She felt completely and utterly calm.

She let go of her knife and withered to the floor. 

The next few moments always defied being put in proper order, later. She heard a voice, the audible equivalent of Mum’s wings; it couldn't be confined by the Earthly plane. Something entirely ethereal and not of this world even a little bit. 

Dad’s running feet. The snap of whatever weapon he had in his grip lighting up like a fireworks display. Tisiphone’s roar as she finally let go of Mum and dove for Dad instead. The terrible crunch as blade met bone. The heart-chilling scraping sound as Mum tried to crawl over to reach her. 

“Mum,” she whispered, thinking that even if she were going to die she’d appreciate some company while doing so. 

Mum had tried to shift into his human form but he was still a huge serpent-like thing from the waist down, a massive tail lying limp on the living room floor. The light had gone out of his eyes so that they looked almost grey, and his fingers were limp. She could see a spark of life, still, but gods and devils, it wasn’t a lot. His red hair had gone an even deeper shade, coated in his own blood. His face could hardly be discerned beneath the curtain of slaughterhouse leavings, a laceration slicing through the features she loved so well. 

She reached out and touched Mum’s fingertips, singing -well whispering, it was all she could do - the lullaby he’d taught her back when she was little. He smiled a little with lips gone pallid-white.

She stared into the void and waited for it to come and take her. 

Dad came running over and when she spent the effort to try and see him past the blackness, she perceived his worried face. It was the color of a winter hunting scene done in Impressionist oil paint. Worried? Terrified, she thought, wishing she could say she didn’t mind it all, really, that he shouldn’t worry about her. He had black ichor all over him, and his eyes were huge and disbelieving, his hair a mess as if he'd been out in a bucketing rainfall without his umbrella. 

_Goodnight, Dad._ She thought, trying to reach out and touch him. _It’ll be okay. Always knew I would end up like this._

—  
_It’s not supposed to happen this way!_

Aziraphale raged. Good Lord in Heaven, not that he would have preferred to kill Crowley himself if indeed that was the proper interpretation of the prophecy, but damn Agnes for lying to him. How could it be? Every single one of her predictions had been well, nice and accurate. At least those appalling words had promised an end they could prepare for. 

He let Arondight fall to the floor. Now that he’d dispatched Tisiphone he couldn’t bring himself to keep holding it. 

He took a step towards his loved ones, the people he cherished most, before he went to his knees. He’d taken wounds himself and had barely managed to miracle away the disease carried on those terrible shark teeth, so many and so fearsome they’d distorted Tisiphone’s jaw. To say nothing of her vipers.

Both Crowley and Wendy lay limp, their fingers brushing. He wouldn’t let himself refer to it as lifeless. Crowley was gravely injured, though, and there existed no denial strong enough to gloss over that fact. 

Crowley's guts spilled out of his ripped open belly. He had a fearsome laceration courtesy of Tisiphone's talons, opening his cheek and jaw. Aziraphale shivered as the ancient memory of that awful business with the lamb's blood. A huge pool of dark blood stained Aziraphale’s clothing now too as he crawled over. Yet this couldn't be waved aside as belonging to an animal. 

He touched Crowley’s hair, his beautiful hair, with a reverence he’d never shown Heaven. 

_Please don’t leave me here alone._

Wendy’s left arm hung mangled at her side, punctured with fangs and shaken as if a brown bear had gotten ahold of her. She looked like a corpse already herself, her skin swan-white, her arms out like a sculpture of an angel. She looked so normal, like a china doll, that he struggled to comprehend what had happened to her. But something in him knew.

_My girl. My precious girl._

“Aziraphale!” A muffled but quite insistent voice called from outside the front door; it had slammed shut at some point. Before he could completely lose himself to mad gibbering, he made himself get up. He stumbled towards the sound of his name, praying as he had never prayed before for divine intervention. Perhaps Crowley was Fallen, but surely their Mother who art in Heaven wouldn’t abandon him so completely! And Wendy…

_She’s just a child, O Lord!_

_Kids,_ he heard Crowley say from thousands of years past, _you can’t kill kids._

“Aziraphale, for god’s sake,” the voice continued. “Do you want my help or not?”

Only then did he realize that Anathema was on his front step. 

He flung the door open and whatever she saw on his face made her turn a color common in charnel houses. Her dark eyes widened, then narrowed. She had her faux-tartan coat on, and her hair pinned back in a business-like manner. A plain leather satchel hung from her shoulder, bulging with God only knew what. She looked past him into the once peaceful living room that had in a moment become a killing floor.

_How did she know?_

A question for another time.

“Shit.” She snapped off the word like snapping a tree branch in half, then shoved him unceremoniously out of her way. He saw her gaze flick between Wendy and Crowley. Wendy won out. 

The sheer terror of this kind of decision had frozen Aziraphale by the door. How could he possibly decide which of them to help? 

“Hey!” Anathema all but shouted (she had come to battle for Crowley and Wendy’s lives and no one would keep her from that, not even an angel immobile with self-doubt). “Do whatever you can to keep Crowley alive and do it now. If I don’t treat Wendy, she’s doomed. Go!” 

He felt piteous gratitude that Anathema had given him a task, had released him from trying to deal with both problems at once. He sat right in the pool of blood seeping from Crowley’s wounds; there would be no saving these clothes so what did it matter? He cradled Crowley’s head ever so gently in his lap. Crowley’s skin was waxen and grey, and his staring eyes had lost all their gold save a single spark somewhere deep in their centers. 

He was an angel, yes. He could heal. But that would be at cross purposes if he tried to heal Crowley in such a way (he refused to entertain the notion that Crowley was already dead). He could hear Anathema working as quickly as her human faculties would allow, the crunch of mortar and pestle, the rustle of bandages. 

There was no way she could make enough of everything for Wendy and Crowley and Aziraphale himself would have been a hindrance to the process rather than a help. 

Desperate, he flipped through his mental library (which was quite extensive and if written down in a collector's volume would fetch a very handsome price from any book buyer worth their salt), looking for even the silliest ideas. He couldn’t just wait, helpless. 

_I’m a proper idiot._

He laid Crowley flat on the floor again, studying his dearest as if he’d never had the chance before. He had to concentrate, and what better focal point than his true love? 

The signature he’d written so meticulously on Crowley’s soul lit up with light as he touched it, traced its curves and sharp edges in a way that was becoming comforting and familiar. Through it he could at least offer a tether to the world, one that didn’t burn the way another angel’s touch would have. He allowed a trickle of healing intent to travel through the bond, praying it would do more good than harm. 

_You can’t have him!_ He shouted in his mind, directly in Death’s face. Or so he hoped. _He belongs to me!_

His aura expanded in a gleaming corona of light. Grace poured off him like raindrops, if raindrops were made of chipped diamonds. All six sets of wings cracked into existence like peals of thunder, the inherent harmony in them healing the house as it whirled over his and Anathema’s heads like a cyclone. 

His wings covered Crowley on one side, Anathema and Wendy on the other. Perhaps Tisiphone was dead - and very much ruining the carpet, quite rude really - and no longer a threat, but the true adversary was Death. 

Without warning, there he was. He looked as he always had, with his black, voluminous robe, the scythe in his skeletonized grasp, the bleached, grinning skull that passed for a face. 

**YOU DEFY ME, PRINCIPALITY?**

He didn’t stand. He had the half-insane thought that it was only his mantled wings that stood between his family and Death’s scythe. 

“This isn’t supposed to happen yet!”

He felt shame turn the blood in his veins into a tangle of frozen-over tributaries and confluences, covered in treacherous ice. To use that vile prophecy as an argument, to beg for Crowley’s soul…wasn’t it cruel of him? Better that Crowley die quickly.

_What the hell am I thinking?_

Death paused as if struck by the business end of a broadsword. Maybe the blow hadn’t impeded him, but his ears were clearly ringing. 

**YOU ARE CORRECT. PREPARE FOR YOUR ROLE, THEN, ANGEL OF THE EASTERN GATE. IT IS THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE, NO MATTER HOW MONSTROUS.**

Death turned but took a moment to consider Wendy. Thank whoever, Aziraphale could hear her breathing. She lay cradled in Anathema’s arms, struggling for air. Anathema had that coiled cat quality that said she would fight Death herself if given half the chance. Her expressive eyes turned defiant, gaze as steady as a sacred stone. 

“No. These souls don’t belong to you. Not yet.” She said, as fierce as a panther jumping from branch to branch. 

Death laughed. It was like a xylophone tuned low and played with bones. It had the quality of a corpse moldering in the ground, a wet, repugnant sound that made gooseflesh rise on Aziraphale’s arms. 

**PEACE, PRINCIPALITY. I HAVE OTHER PLANS.**

He couldn’t breathe, hearing that. It was as if Wendy’s struggle had become his own, his lungs like a pair of beetles pinned to a display mat. The dread, oh god. Dread. Instant, consuming dread. 

Death disappeared into the ether. 

Crowley screamed a barely-there scream. It was the best sound Aziraphale had ever heard in his life, like a newborn baby strangled by the umbilical cord finally getting a critical lungful of air. He checked the link between them, and it seemed Crowley was indeed being helped by his Grace. Crowley’s essence responded to the mark, gathering itself, gold making his eyes all but lambent again. 

Wendy sat up on her own, coughing as if trying to dislodge the last of the poison Tisiphone had inflicted on her. Her arm, her precious arm, was as unmarred as it had been the day she was born. Poor Anathema’s coat, stained with blood, vomit, and herbs might never be the same, but thankfully he didn’t have to say the same about his daughter. 

Utterly exhausted, he slid down the newel post at the end of the staircase and sat there as if he were a forgotten temple artifact, battered and leaning heavily to one side. 

Crowley crawled into his arms first. Crowley sobbed, shivering so hard his teeth were chattering. Zira understood and wrapped his love in an embrace. He put his weariness to the side; he was needed. Crowley would never have been so emotive in front of Anathema especially unless he was about to come apart at the seams.

He bid his Grace to become a thousand threads of silver-white filigree, covering Crowley in all the adoration he could muster (which was quite a bit, to the point where Anathema put her hand to her head and laid down right on the floor, mumbling about resting her eyes considering the world had gone all wonky and sparkly). 

Wendy wormed into his arms next, so Crowley and Wendy were curled together in his lap. He gasped as another shot of relief hit him. He tightened his hold on her and pressed a kiss to her hair. God above, he’d almost lost her. Lost them both. Though Crowley had fought hard and would have triumphed via all that venom, he would have traded his life for that success. 

But Anathema had made sure fate had gone a different way for Wendy, and thereby let him do the same for Crowley. 

He blessed Anathema with too much fervor; she passed out. Thank goodness she was already lying there near the door. Without her, he hated to think what could have happened and he only hoped the blessing would be of help somehow when she awoke. 

Despite everything Heaven had done to them all, he offered God a prayer. Just for Her, not for any of those cold, clinical monsters that called themselves angels. 

_Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t abandon us. Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yall for reading! So, Zira picks up a sword again after rejecting it even in the Garden of Eden. What happens now? Angst, probably. Right? Angst. xd
> 
> I had some goals with this one. To show that Crowley is still a capable person even though he belongs to Zira. And to show the lengths Zira will go to, to keep Crowley and Wendy safe. Even take up a sword again. And that Wendy is a scrappy little thing, though we knew that anyway right? :)
> 
> Wendy's thoughts about knowing she would end up dead before her time are a reflection of her experience as a trans person. I think a lot of us have probably struggled with similar thoughts before, at some point in our lives. 
> 
> The bear reference is because Zira remembers when there were bears in the UK :P
> 
> I love yall. Have a good day. Take your meds and drink something! <3


	15. We Live Our Lives Of A Sacred Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horsepersons decide they want horses. But no ordinary beast will do, so Wensley takes the Them to the Beyond to begin their search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is good? Me and reality aren't exactly in love with each other at the moment. 
> 
> I have more the Them stuff coming that I think yall will really like. 
> 
> Anyone else DYING to see Birds of Prey? I can't believe we have to wait so long!

“Well,” Adam said, reclining in his wicker throne, “It seems to me, it just seems to _me_ , that you should test your powers. Remember what Newt said about proper experiments?”

“Yeah,” Brian answered dutifully, hanging upside down from a nearby tree. He had his legs crooked over a big branch, his hands hanging and free to emote. Though, Adam had to worry over it since Brian had gone as red as a phone box. “You gotta have an idea first. And then you test it, and see if you can get the same results more than once.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Adam agreed as Wensley and Pepper looked on. “Wensley, Pepper, we should try it! You know how Uncle Zira and Uncle Crowley do things? They find something they want to change, and then poof!”

Adam said, snapping his fingers for good measure. Dog started barking as if he knew that doing so usually preceded a blessing or a curse. It was easy to forget that he was once a hellhound. 

“Okay,” Pepper said, in that tone that warned of an upcoming storm. “Okay, maybe you have a point. But how’re we going to get out of Tadfield? We might be horsepersons, but we’re still kids. Can’t just drive away, can we?”

 _“Actually,”_ Wensley started, using his index finger to push his glasses back into place. “It’s in the name, isn’t it? Horsepersons.” 

Pepper pursed her lips and her forehead wrinkled. Sitting in a pile of leaves as she was made her look inhuman, like a faerie or a spirit. As if she’d grown out of Hogback Woods like a sprout. 

“The original horsepersons had bikes though,” Brian interjected, clambering out of the tree to join the conversation properly. “So could the horses be anything that, you know, moves people?”

“I want a proper horse,” Pepper announced, her eyes hard and fiery. Adam had to fight the urge to recoil. He remembered more of being the Antichrist than he wanted to, how easy it was to abuse power like that. He moved back, hoping that if it were noticed no one would think he was trying to get away from one of his closest friends in the world. 

“Let’s go get one!” Brian suggested, throwing his hands up in excitement. “You both went into, like, this other world, right? I bet if we could go back there, we could find everything you want. Maybe a dragon, even!” 

“Come on, there’s no dragons,” Adam scoffed. But really, he felt uneasy. He’d seen the Devil itself. Couldn’t there be dragons, then?

“There could be,” Brian pointed out. “There could be anything out there, huh?”

“Well,” Pepper said, standing and dusting off her trousers. “Let’s go find out.”

* * *

Wensley paused in the nearby field, the one adjacent to R.P. Tyler’s jealously guarded orchard. The Them stopped too, just short of banging into Wensley as he came to an unexpected stop. 

“This is where I saw it,” Wensley was saying, unconcerned by anything that didn’t have to do with his previous vision. Adam watched him stare at the grass as if the blades would rearrange themselves into a meaningful statement of some kind, but of course nothing of the sort happened. 

But Pepper had a determined look on her face, as if she were tracking a wounded animal back to its den. She could see the spoor and smell the musk, but she hadn’t quite decided whether the prey had taken the left fork or the right. 

“Well, something magical is going on,” she said, her tone firm as if she expected them to disbelieve her. A verbal cue that she was made of stone and wouldn’t be moved. “And it makes sense there’s a whole other magical realm, right? If Uncle Zira and Uncle Crowley have Heaven and Hell, the Earth and all its spirits and gods must have something too.”

Silence. Then after a long moment, Wensley said: “I thought I was in Tir na Nog.”

It came out of him in a whisper and Adam wondered what force had manifested itself, what nefarious thing was trying to push Wensley’s words right back down his throat. 

“Tir na Nog,” Wensley repeated. “There’s something…bugger it. It’s…” He continued to struggle for a moment, but none of the Them could even conceive of interrupting him. “It has other names. Delightful Plain, Place of Many Colors…”

If Wensley were sitting, Adam thought, he would have leapt from his chair. As it was an excited wiggle made his whole body undulate. He’d definitely spent too much time around Aziraphale. 

“I’ve got it!” Wensley crowed. “Land of Apples! The Island of Apple Trees!” 

Every one of them knew the significance of apples. If not in their former lives, they did now. Understanding went up red in Adam’s middle, like, well. Like a flourishing apple tree. 

“So…it’s like there is this huge otherworld,” Adam began. “But there are a lot of different ways to get in?"

“Sure,” Brian said with all the confidence in the world, though he shifted from one foot to another as he took everything in. “That makes some kind of sense, right? Not every door unlocks with the same key.” 

“No no,” Wensley all but snapped. “That’s not it. Brian, Adam, shield your eyes.”  
They did as told. No one had heard such a confident, serious tone from little Wensley before, and they did as he asked without argument. "I'm going to test whether this is replicable."

The moment Wensley did…whatever he was doing, blazing light poured over their heads. Adam could see it even with his eyes closed, and he was very glad indeed that they were closed; god only knew what it would be like to stare directly at it. 

Satiation settled into him as if it were a badger and his body its den. Hunger became an impossible concept to comprehend, and it was so far away besides. He dared to open his eyes. The light had banked a bit, enough that Adam could consider it without going blind. 

Wensley held a silver bough in his hands, heavy with golden apples that shimmered like cockatrice wings. Before him, the earth had opened up like a mouth open in a cry, leading down into an ancient burial tomb. Beside him, Pepper stood. Her magic must have been reacting to Wensley’s in some way, because she wore a floating cloak of pure iridescence.

_The horsepersons were meant to work in a group._

Adam caught the glance Brian had thrown his way. Brian stood there like a wolf in the snow, having heard the first hunter's rifle. Still, not nearly as afraid as Adam would have expected. That was true for himself as well; he found himself remarkably unbothered by the idea of walking a path right into the land of the dead. 

Pepper had white flames licking at her face and entwined with her hair, but she didn’t react. As if it were normal, like she had things like that happen to her every other day. White and pink poppies were woven into her hair, where it had been pulled tight and twisted into a ponytail. Her clothes flickered. One moment, her usual outfit. The next, a robe of many colors that made Adam hear the whispers of the ancestors.

She had the sword, too, strapped to her back. It wasn’t on fire yet, but easily could be at any moment. He understood that sometimes Peace came over a place through violent means. Just staring at her, he comprehended this truth. No wonder he and Brian weren’t afraid; they were in the presence of Peace herself. 

Adam watched as Pepper ventured into the burial mound. As the days passed and they all grew older, he found he had lost his affinity for leadership. What he’d almost done to the Them…what he had done to the Them. He hadn’t lost all of his powers since he’d renounced Satan and he didn’t want to be tempted by it again. 

He followed Wensley and Pepper into the darkness, Brian next to him and gripping his arm as if terrified. 

(the only other living being that saw them descend into the earth was R.P. Tyler’s dog, who half-heartedly barked as if to say “hey put those apples back, you scoundrels!”). 


	16. Kissed By The Wild And Loved By Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Brian wander face-first into unexpected revelations. Their journey in Tir na Nog continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the poem Artemis Girl by Nakita Gill

Wensley had taken point since his silver bough’s shine illuminated their path. And besides, this was his realm now, Adam thought as he followed behind. A weird and unfamiliar feeling made his chest tighten and his eyes sting. Jealousy. He was jealous of Wensley and Pepper. Would _he_ be given a chance to be a champion, to put things right? 

He emerged at his friend’s backs into a land that was so wholly Other it blinded him for a moment. He stumbled into the sunlight. Further thoughts left his head like scattered seeds. 

“Doesn’t time get all wonky here?” Brian asked, his voice hushed as it usually was when he was feeling true hesitance. “Like we stay here a day but back on earth it’s five hundred years?”

“I can keep that from happening,” Wensley said, firm. Adam studied his friend and had to admit he believed that. Wensley was different and not because of anything superficial like clothes. It went deeper than that, an aura that made Adam believe Wensley could do just as he said. 

Adam blinked, his vision adjusting. A vast meadow lay before them, filled with riotous flowers (not all of which he could name). Huge white hares dotted the surface like snowfalls, gorging themselves on all the bounty the land had to offer. The forest to the right, made of ash, oak, and hawthorn, housed wolves; Adam could see them in flashes of silver as they padded by. The branches were thick with ravens and crows, staring down at them with impassive stiched-button eyes. 

And people. People everywhere, and every one of them engaged in a joyful activity. Here, a hunter fletched a new batch of arrows, his plaited red hair a fitting crown. He sat on the porch of his house, wrapped in furs, and everything about how he held himself communicated relaxation. The house itself was made entirely of feathers, thatched together like straw but resplendent like the sky. The woman he was talking to wore an elaborately embroidered gown in midnight-blue, and she was smiling as if she hadn’t a care in all the world. 

He wandered without rhyme or reason, responding to the dreamy atmosphere. He knew Wensley would look out for him, and he was so enchanted he couldn’t have stood still a moment longer. As he walked, a massive oak tree became more apparent. Red-barred birds warbled and cried from their perches there, something he couldn’t define as music so unusual it was. 

“The souls of the dead,” an unknown voice said. He turned to see a massive man dressed in bear and wolf furs over boiled leather armor. A pig that came up to the man’s waist trundled along beside him, and a cured ham hock peeked out from the pack on the man’s hip. “Some choose to take these forms and bring joy through their songs, or to tell our many stories.” 

“An Dagda,” Adam breathed. He didn’t know where the name had come from, except to say that it was all but written on the man’s face. “Why the oak?” 

“Why, we are the People of the Oak,” Dagda said, turning to look at the tree in question. The pressure of his gaze shifting made Adam gasp at how heavy it had truly been. “We come from the sacred trees. Every new child is a leaf on those boughs.” 

They fell into a strange silence. Adam, aware he was in the presence of a god, felt a keen tension he’d never quite felt before. Eventually, though, the words had stewed long enough: “Dagda, why not me? Will anyone come for me?”

“Will you get someone or another’s patronage? I don’t see why you wouldn’t, young king. The real question is, do you want to take the offer?”

At one time Adam wouldn’t have hesitated to answer in the affirmative. But now, the faces of his terrified friends swam before his eyes like a nauseating heatwave. 

“I don’t know,” he said, toeing at the ground. “I…had a lot of power once. And I did really bad things with it. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to do it all over again.”

Dagda sat, and the hog laid down beside him. Adam did the same and sat, feeling it was only right to mirror Dagda’s moves. Dagda took some jerky from his pack and offered it. Adam took it, out of politeness, and began to chew away at it. 

“It takes a strong person to realize they might not be ready. Or maybe they’ll never be ready. Remember, not even the Morrigan's followers all bear the spear."

Adam felt a cold shadow pass over him, and he wrapped his arms tight around himself until it passed.

"Listen, Adam, child of Adam. Some moments and events are fixed in time, and can’t be changed. But they _can_ be manipulated. The details can change, and sometimes that’s enough to buck Fate.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Adam said, watching Dagda intently. 

“You had no choice in being the Antichrist, and nothing could have stopped your birth. But ever since Eden, chaos has existed. Right after an angel decided to lift his wing and shelter a demon from the first storm, in fact. It began to warp the pattern. It allowed you to use those very same powers to reject your destiny. You may do the same now. There are more ways than one to make things right.” 

Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be a horseperson. The heavy weight of destiny filled him with dread whenever he dwelled on the subject for too long. 

“There is bravery in stepping aside, child. Perhaps that is a strange thing for a chieftain to say. But you will never bear the mantle the way someone ready and willing to wear it will.” 

Adam looked up, his head on a string; he’d felt something. He saw Pepper and Wensley running for the ocean, and he couldn’t help but notice that Brian wasn’t with them. 

* * *

  
Brian only meant to get a glimpse of the wolf, honest. It had ribboned past him, half solid, half ethereal. The second half of its body was made up of streaming colors, the blue of a forget me not, the soft pink of a gentle sunset. But most of all, he saw silver. The silver of a polished tea set, or the silver of a really fancy crown. 

He ran after it, his well-used trainers pounding against the damp forest floor. It was, as everything here, no normal forest. Blazing cypress and weeping willows (he could practically hear their sad cries) stood out in the darkness like searchlights. 

The moment where he jumped from one realm to another snapped against him like a rubber band. It knocked him down and winded him such that he had to fight for a long, long moment until his lungs started working properly again. He pushed himself to his feet, and for the first time he stopped and looked around. 

The forest had closed in around him without him even noticing. It left him in a shadow world where the canopies of the trees were grown together as thick as a fur rug, plunging the surroundings into a false night. The first feeling of trepidation banged on his heart the way someone would bang on a locked door if there was an emergency behind it. 

The advice he’d read in the fantasy novels he liked so well always had to do with going forward. That the only way back to where you’d been was to keep moving, deeper into the ominous. 

So, that is exactly what he did, though this time he walked as quiet as he could manage. 

The woods were full of strange creatures. He saw foxes made of golden fire leaping over fallen trees and disappearing into the loam. The ribbon-wolves leapt and danced until an entire pack of them cavorted at his back. Once, in a particularly dark spot, he saw a massive bear made of shadow trundling along between the trees. 

The surroundings made him miss the sound of water at first. But eventually, as all water does to the human mind, it caught his attention. (Brian’s most prevalent memories of water involved a bar of soap and flooding the bathroom thanks to his struggles. But, he figured, there was no way he was being sent to a place like this to have his mouth washed out). 

The ribbon-wolves were all around him now, flowing in and out of each other, barking and howling. They didn't want to eat him, or even be aggressive towards him at all. It was more like…like…they were celebrating. 

One more turn and there it was, the source of the sound. It was more a pond than a lake but nonetheless seemed deep enough for an adult to get in up to their neck. The water itself had such a pull that Brian found himself staring into it mindlessly for a long moment. Only an unexpected polite cough made him react. He stumbled back in surprise and nearly landed on his ass. 

Someone, a woman, was laughing at him. Though, it was a light enough laugh. Whoever it was didn’t seem to take vicious joy from mocking his embarrassment. 

“Look at me, Brian,” the same voice said. And so he did, beholding a woman with long ginger hair, down as if she’d just taken it out of its braid. Her skin reminded him of dark gold beach sand, the kind he’d seen in Hawaii on the one big family trip his parents could afford. It had meant over a year of saving even pennies found on the sidewalk to make it possible, but his parents were determined to give him experiences instead of things. 

Her face was like the foxes he’d seen earlier, sharp, clever. Her pink mouth had a bow shape, and her shining silver eyes were huge and tilted like a cat’s. She wore a silver robe, falling open here and there to reveal glimpses of a muscular body that a lot of people back home would have killed for. 

She’d decided to perch on the rock outcropping across the lake and to the right, making him wonder if he’d interrupted her bath. Only then did he note the five deer lounging behind her, their horns so bright he could hardly stand to look at them. The ribbon-wolves started to growl, and for the first time, he felt fear. 

“Peace, my companions,” she said, and the wolves settled again. “Do you know who I am?”

He squinted, thinking as hard as he could. Maybe this was a god, like Pepper and Wensley had described? He flashed back to Stage 2 history. The world history section in particular. He pictured the map in his mind, and let it spiral and flap before centering on ancient Greece. 

“Artemis?” He said, tremulous. He wouldn’t want to guess wrong and anger whoever this was. Her divine presence was as strong as anything he’d ever felt in a church. He felt sure she could have him ripped to shreds in the span of a second. 

“Correct, clever boy,” she said, her vulpine features rearranging themselves into a far more open expression than the one she’d worn when he’d first stumbled upon her. “Or, perhaps I am being presumptuous. But rare is the man who comes upon Artemis and keeps his life.”

“You think I’m not a boy?”

“Come closer. Find a space to sit. We have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all of you! I'm on vacation and oh my god I needed it so bad. Coming home tomorrow! What's going on in your lives? <3


	17. Seek Alone To Hear The Strange Things Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horsepersons of Peace, Plenty, and who knows what continue their journey and the horses show themselves. But that is all they do; the Them must prove themselves worthy of their mounts. 
> 
> The title is a truncated line from W.B. Yeats' To The Rose on the Rood of Time.

Pepper and Wensley ran towards the beach of white sand, acting on instinct. The sand didn’t shift and pull like normal sand; nothing to turn your foot or steal your shoe. It felt endless, the pure bone color against the dark sea. Land of many colors. Tir na Nog had delivered on that title. 

She might not be of this particular otherworld herself, but Pepper had felt an all-encompassing welcome suffuse her as she'd explored. It had yet to let her go and she snuggled into it like a quilt fresh from the dryer. Perhaps no one’s gods or ancestors could afford to be picky. The borders between realms had stretched, maybe, thinned to the point where they were no longer strictly divided. 

They came to a halt at the edge of the sea. Pepper watched Wensley out of the corner of her eye as his gaze magnetized to the water. The mirror-like water that defied any real-world example. She paused. 

_Land, sea, and sky._

“Did you know that the salmon is one of our sacred animals?” Wensley offered, prodding her out of that strange, still space where the divine could speak to her as it wished. 

Pepper wondered if Wensley’s newly awakened mind was providing him with ancestor-memories of the coast of Kinsale as it once was, rich with life and teeming with energy. Back before shops and tourists and restaurants. Wensley chuckled, though it was a mirthless sound. “Actually, I don’t know how _I_ know that.” 

“You could bring the salmon back, you know,” Pepper pointed out, scanning the horizon. “With just a wave of your hand, probably.” 

Wensley turned to her as if she’d just said something profound, his eyes serious and dark. 

“I could,” Wensley whispered, awed at his own powers. As if he hadn't let himself consider what he had truly been gifted, before now. “I could do just about anything, right? You too.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her baggy dungarees, hunching her shoulders. Her jumper - bright green and too small as many gifts from her grandmother were - felt itchier than usual.

“I could,” she echoed, feeling all of her scant eleven (almost twelve, thank you very much) years. She’d never felt incapable before, nor so daunted by a task. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Spin a globe and pick a spot,” Wensley said, looking up at the sky. It made the lenses of his eyeglasses bright cerulean. “There’s war everywhere.”

Pepper looked out across the waves, picking out a dock in the distance. A human-shape stood there. In contrast to the idyllic spot she and Wensley were standing on, this figure stood wreathed in storm winds. A god, she knew. Another one. 

“Do you think they’ll try to come back?” She asked, her neutral tone a mask for the way her chest had tightened up with anxiety at the thought. “You know. The horsepersons. They’re never really gone, are they?” 

“Not as long as humans make war, steal food from one another’s mouths, and insist on ruining the very earth that was made for them.”

“For _them?_ Wensley, we’re still human,” she protested, disliking the shrill quality in her own voice. Ever since he’d picked up the bough, he’d been the most touched of all of them. Often it felt as if he weren’t even speaking with his own voice, and it was all too easy for him to get lost in daydreams. Sometimes, she didn't even _recognize_ him. 

“Are we?” He asked, coming a step closer. Only then did she see the murder of crows at his feet, silent and ominous as they rarely were back home. “I don’t know if I feel very human, now.” 

Pepper suppressed a shiver. She wished she had Wensley’s conviction.

One moment to the next she could feel the sword in her hand as if she were back at the airbase, as if the memory had arisen to remind her of her own courage. When she glanced down, the hilt was clenched in her fist. A lick of fire jumped along the length, a whiplash of burning destruction. 

“Well. Let them come. We’ll handle it.” She said, standing ramrod straight. The sword had reminded her of her victory, and it heartened her. “Especially when Brian and Adam get their powers.”

The seafoam undulated and changed shape; Pepper could swear she saw the outline of a horse’s head picked out in the spray. Only for a moment, true, but maybe it was a sign they were in the right place after all. 

“You’re right, of course. But…well. Do you ever wonder _why_ we got these gifts?”

“Defeating the horsepersons, I expect,” Pepper said. Was that the body of a horse taking shape now, as if the beast were striding free of the water? 

“Is it random chance?” Wensley asked, frowning. “That seems quite impossible. Of course, chaos theory states that - “

“Shh,” Pepper commanded, putting her arm across Wensley’s chest as if she were trying to keep him back from something dangerous. “Look.”

A massive horse continued to take shape, his mane, tail, and long legs emerging as he walked towards land. One moment and he was a blown glass, see-through thing that more properly belonged in an old lady's collection of curios. The next, his wings unfurled and he tossed his be-horned head, coat and feathers flooding with color.

“An alicorn,” Pepper said, fixed to the spot as she watched. The animal’s hide became detailed, a dark buckskin brown. That brown was mottled heavily with dappling that glimmered like an intricate mosaic laid at the bottom of a fountain. Its wings were black, but unlike Crowley’s onyx-colored crow feathers, these were the still-hot ashes of a recently extinguished fire. 

“Sky,” Wensley whispered. 

Before Pepper could walk towards it, it took off running in a cloud of kicked up sand. Dread hit her as though someone had tossed her into the cold sea waters from which the mount had emerged. 

“How will I ever catch _that?”_ She exclaimed. Even as an adult, she could never hope to outrun a regular horse, let alone a magical one that could fly. 

Before she could feel despair, a little reminder flickered on and off in the back of her mind like a faulty neon sign; it took her a long moment to decipher it. 

_You are championed by not just Persephone, but the great ruler Obatala. Let your deeds define you. You have ashe. Use it._

Like Wensley, she didn’t have to wonder what the words meant. Ashe. Life-force. Energy. Heart. 

She remembered what Adam had told them, the way Crowley had said, _the world will listen to you right now._

Finally, her mother’s voice: _musubi. the interconnected nature of everything. Spirit, human, animal. Elements, ancestors._

She turned and hit the path running.


	18. As The Rivers And The Sea Are One

Here is the poem Zira is quoting when he compares Anathema to Persephone:

i wasn’t afraid, mama;  
i was bored. i was hungry.

do you know how long i waited  
for that fruit? me in the fields,  
the sunlight on my hair a crown.  
sweat on my palms glittering  
like starbursts carved in marble,  
teeth sharp as athena’s sword.  
he took one look at me  
and broke the earth open  
for desire.  
  
and all that time, you thought  
golden-armoured braggarts  
could storm my heart into  
surrender. oh, mama.  
what did i care to be a bride  
when i could be queen?

i wasn’t afraid, mama;  
i wasn’t taken. i left.  
if you only knew   
how his hair is softest  
when he’s on his knees,  
coaxing spring  
from inside of me.

"

_LETTERS FROM PERSEPHONE_ // Natalie Wee

* * *

Aziraphale and Anathema (once she’d come around) worked together to tend to Crowley and Wendy. Aziraphale bore Crowley up the steps in his arms, Crowley’s overtaxed body limp in his hold.

Anathema encouraged Wendy to go up to her bedroom, an easy grip on Wendy's shoulder to steer the girl; Wendy's steps faltered out of pure fatigue. Anathema did so with a gentleness Aziraphale had not realized the young witch possessed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, after settling Crowley in bed. He traced the line of one sharp cheekbone with fingers that he’d willed steady. Crowley looked like Ophelia in the river, his red hair mussed, so vulnerable, too weary to keep fighting the inevitable.

Zira brought the quilt up a little higher over Crowley’s shoulders. If only he could protect Crowley from all the hideous things taking shape with something so simple as a warm blanket.

“Hm?” Crowley said, though his eyes remained closed.

“Are you all right? I need to speak with Anathema, but I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re frightened or worried.”

“M’okay angel. Need some sleep, is all.”

“On one condition: Promise me you won’t sleep for a hundred odd years this time.”

A bare chuckle was his reward. He cradled it to his breast as if it were a piece of fine crystal, the sort with high sentimental value. He combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair, buoyed up by the whimper of relaxation it earned him.

He went into Wendy’s room next, after Wendy’s soft assent. He took a seat on the edge of her bed, hating how her dark counterpane made her look funerary. Her hair, fanned out on her pillow, looked like a tangled halo. Her hands were milk-white against the blanket.

“Hi Dad,” she mumbled. She wasn’t looking at him, but he perceived that it had more to do with her lack of energy than her feeling angry at him.

“Hello, darling girl. I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t mixed up in all of this.”

Doubt seized his heart. Had they made a mistake, adopting a mortal? She couldn’t deny the preternatural now, and Heaven and Hell would soon realize (if they hadn’t already) that they were a family. What then? Hell had to have set Tisiphone on them, and that had been bad enough.

“It’s crazy,” Wendy managed. The wan illumination from the nightlight beside her bed cast her in alabaster hues. “I mean, it wasn’t so hard accepting that you’re an angel or that mum is a demon, I guess. Still scares me sometimes. But…”

_Today was something all together else._

“I’ll do my best to protect you, you know that.”

“Yeah. Did a good job today, Dad.”

He choked up and before he could respond, she’d fallen into a deep sleep. He stayed for a moment longer, reassuring himself by watching her breathe as if she were a helpless infant he had to monitor at all times.

When he went downstairs again, Anathema had taken off her coat and hung it by the door. He passed by it and waved his hand, restoring it to its former glory. He could hardly imagine dear Anathema without that stylish tartan outerwear. After what she’d done for him and his family it was the least he could do in return.

Anathema herself had chosen a seat in the middle of the couch. Her hair hung limp and untied, frizzy and smelling of crushed herbs. Her silk patterned blouse, an aqua green color, had a great spot of blood marring it. Wendy’s, for it was red instead of black like Crowley’s snake-ichor.

“Anathema,” he said, overcome one minute to the next by such gratitude that it all but swept him off his feet. He came over and clutched at her hands. “Thank you. Oh, you darling girl…thank you.”

He might have been the angel and she the human, but it was he who had the urge to kneel before her in humble worship.

Her dead-eyed stare enlivened once more, warmth seeping into her big soil-brown eyes as winter giving over to spring. It made poetry pop into his brain. Specifically, poems about Persephone:

_What did I care to be a bride, when I could be queen?_

He preferred the classics, yes. Or so he let people believe, as it wasn’t the full truth. Contemporary chapbooks in particular were all over his bookshop, hidden between ponderous tomes no one but the most dedicated would ever reach for. An embarrassing amount of those poems were about true love.

 _I wasn’t taken. I left._

Anathema had that same courage.

“It’s all right, Zira,” she said, her eyes wide. He worried he’d bled too much Grace, to the point where it was arcing through her like electricity. He let her go and moved back. “You can rely on me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He tried to discreetly wipe sudden tears from his eyes, doing a shambolic job of it.

“Yes. I do believe we are.”

Anathema rose to her feet and closed the distance between them again. She touched his arm and her gaze made him orient to her. Such presence, for a mortal.

“Then…Zira? Show me the prophecy.”

* * *

He fetched the prophecy as asked. They retired to the back patio to get a better look at the curled up piece of parchment, which he spread flat on the table and weighted down with river rocks. He took a seat, and Anathema took the one beside him.

Her hair had a faint dried rose petals and Lipton scent under the thick miasma of the poultice she’d hammered together in the sitting room. He saw Anathema and Newton in his mind’s eye, brewing a pot of tea and setting out breakfast in their charming little cottage.

 _Until we meddle in their lives. Again._

Usually, he would have felt the echo of all the happy memories made out here on the patio, and would have grieved for them. Now, the despair he felt looking at those terrible words was so profound he felt numb.

He watched Anathema’s brows draw together behind her owl-eye glasses. A serious look pinched her rouged mouth as she read the words.

“You know, most people in my family thought this was about Joan of Arc?” She said, cocking her head as if doing so would reveal some new insight as she inspected the prophecy a second time. “I wish it _were_ about Joan of Arc, in fact.”

He wanted to ask her whether it was literal, whether he would truly have to kill Crowley on some awful god-forsaken battleground. Would they be on opposite sides? He could hardly comprehend such a thing. They’d chosen _their_ side and chosen it again and again. He couldn’t imagine regressing into that cruel self-righteous angel standing under the bandstand, telling Crowley it was over.

“I…Aziraphale.” Anathema tried. He closed his eyes, a dreadful resignation settling on him like the hood the poor creatures sent to die in the electric chair had lowered over their faces just before the end. Trust the U.S. to come up with something worse than hanging.

“Tell me.”

“It’s a literal death,” she said, and Aziraphale felt a massive stone door close on his hopes that it would be otherwise. He fancied he could hear the boom as it hit the jamb and caught there, plunging him into shadows so thick they were suffocating.

“Are you quite sure?”

He felt a faint pang; he’d said something insulting; of course Anathema, a prophetess, was sure. He hadn’t meant it to be rude, but he couldn’t believe her words the first time around. Anathema chose to ignore his slip up, and his positive image of her gained another bright color.

“Yes.”

“How?” He asked, turning his face to the sky. He hoped for some kind of hopeful omen. A wren, perhaps, or a dove. “How do you know?”

He could feel Anathema’s gaze boring a hole into him.

“I _know.”_ She said, her voice as final as a guillotine blade. “I tried to escape being Agnes’ professional descendant, and in a way I did. But now? _I’m_ the prophet. How do you think I knew to come to your door?”

The shock made him re-focus on her.

“ _What?_ My dear girl, you must write it down! Anything -absolutely _anything -_ you receive from the universe. The only prophecy book with merit was Ms. Nutter’s. You could write the second nice and accurate prophecies! Why - “

“Aziraphale,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. She had a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and he smiled back. At least he _could_ smile, for some things. “I’ll think about it. As for _this_ prophecy…it bothers me. Obviously. But it also bothers me because I can’t think of _why_ Crowley would need to die, and by your hand.”

He reached for a mug of tea he didn’t have. Muttering, he miracled up two cups of cocoa instead; healthy does of bourbon went down much smoother when drinking chocolate was involved.

Doing his best to think past his screaming denial, he gnawed on his lower lip until he felt the pain ground him. Enough that he could discuss this wretched topic further. 

“Is it something we can change? Surely there must be a way. Why would his death be fixed in the timeline? I don’t _understand.”_

He stopped short of slamming his fist on the table with enough force to break it into a million pieces.

As it was he’d put more emphasis on the words than he meant to, but it was true. He didn’t understand any of it. Why would the Almighty torture them this way? Or was it some sort of Hellish plot which She couldn’t or wouldn’t change?

“Let’s go through it line by line." Anathema suggested, producing a moleskin notebook from a pocket in her skirt. It drew attention to her clothes, and he miracled them clean with a wave of his hand. “Oh, thank you.”

“The least I can do, dear girl.”

“So this line: **When the armies of mortality/Clash with the armies of Heaven and Hell** …knowing what we do now, it sounds like the most likely interpretation is a second war. But this time, it will be Earth against Heaven and Hell.”

“Crowley said something to me awhile ago. He said, “if you ask me, it will be all of us against all of _them.”_ Something to that effect. The armies of Heaven and Hell against humanity.”

Anathema paled, but pushed on.

“All right. Let’s say that happens. There’s a second Armageddon, and this one has a successful start. **Only love may save you.** That must be you. It's addressed to Crowley, so I imagine that's the implication."

He gulped. He couldn’t get any air from one moment to the next. The only thing that kept him from lurching out of his chair was his sheer willpower. His body lit up with adrenaline and he felt that at any moment he might start hyperventilating.

What _was_ this? Some byproduct of becoming too human?

Anathema took his hands and squeezed them.

“Zira, you’re having a panic attack. Listen to my voice. We’ll get you through this. Tell me two things you can feel.”

She squeezed his hands again for emphasis.

His whirlpool of a mind left him shipwrecked, trying to make sense of the aftermath. Summoning words had become a nigh-impossible task, as if he were in the ocean struggling to find a bit of life-saving driftwood. But if Anathema thought her technique might end this dreadful state, he had to trust her.

“Your hands,” he said. I…I don’t know…”

“ _Try,_ Zira,” she said, in a voice that parted the enshrouding fear like a pair of freshly sharpened sewing scissors.

“The…the breeze off the water,” he said, some of the dread (ever present, to the point where it was becoming a friend) bleeding away.

“Good. Three things you can see.”

“You. The table.” He faltered, considering he could see the prophecy. Wild with fear, he chose something else. He noted a red kite had landed on the canopy of fairy lights. “A bird.”

“You’re doing great. How do you feel?”

“…better,” he had to admit. Anathema’s face rearranged itself from serious scholar to relieved friend. She let go of his hands and pushed his cup of spiked cocoa closer to his arm.

“Try and have a couple sips of that,” she suggested, sitting back in her chair to watch him. He had the feeling he wouldn’t get away with refusing.

He did as asked, grateful for the way the liquor burned when he swallowed it.

“How did you know what to do?” He asked, rather baffled and impressed by Anathema’s hidden depths.

“Newt has attacks sometimes. So I researched it.”

Of course she had. A woman after his own book-loving heart.

“Are you okay to go over the rest of the prophecy? I can always come back later.”

He seriously considered bowing out. His usual way. He felt such a wave of disgust at himself that he blurted;

“No. I need this.”

Information, knowledge, was power. No one knew that better than he did. He needed all the power he could get if he were going to engineer all of this properly. If he couldn’t save Crowley’s life, he’d be thrice-damned before he let a chance to save Crowley’s soul pass by.

Anathema regarded him for a moment without speaking. She clearly felt unsure about his mental state, and whether she would do more harm than good by continuing. She must have decided to continue, however, since she turned back to her notebook.

“The next line is: **yet, love comes with a blade in hand, forged betwixt good and evil.”** Hmm,” Anathema said, tapping her pencil against the open pages in front of her. “Do you have anything like that? Or know of anything like that?”

“Arondight,” he said slowly, wondering what the prophecy could be referring to. His sword seemed like the only thing that fit. It had been forged betwixt good and evil, but he felt it wasn’t quite the right answer. “It is of Heaven and Hell. Both.”

“Could be that, then.” She said, tone even, though she boggled at him a moment when he mentioned the name of the sword. “But…I just feel like maybe there’s more to that than we can see right now. It might become clear later.”

“In time, I hope,” he grumbled. His heart tried to chip its way out of his ribcage like an archeologist scratching away at granite.

“Well, even the ones that seem literal aren’t always,” Anathema said, writing down her thoughts as she went.

 _Read, foolish principalitee._

**“You must die** **in order to** **live,”** Anathema read aloud. “So,” she said, looking off into the distance. “Something about the killing preserves some part of Crowley? Is Arondight forged from celestial steel or anything?”

“You mean would it otherwise destroy him completely?” Aziraphale asked. “No, I don’t think so. Not with the Hellish influences. Unless it were altered somehow, or a new blade were forged for the purpose of…oh, I don’t know. Storing his soul? But…the energy that would take! If it could even _be_ done, who in all the Heavens would do it for us?”

“Hm. This is another part that I will have to look into more closely. Events are happening we can’t see. I’m sorry, I know that must be frustrating. But I’ll do everything I can to puzzle it out.”

“I know you will.”

She pressed her lips together in a pensive line.

“And last… **”the Name does not mean what you think it does.”** I admit, I’m stumped by that one. It’s so vague —“

She cut off when she caught sight of his deep blush, his cheeks as red as a stoplight.

“Er, ah. Well. Have you taken a look at Crowley’s aura lately?”

He asked, as if he were asking her whether she’d put the kettle on. He tried to look the picture of innocence, the way he usually did when Gabriel and company were interrogating him about something.

“Didn’t have the time earlier, I was a _little_ busy.”

“Can you look from here?”

“Sure I can. Hold on a second.” She took a deep breath and her eyes unfocused as she peered through her glasses at the metaphysical. Aziraphale watched the change come over her face. Her right eyebrow cocked high, almost straight into her straggly hair. Her eyes popped open and her mouth dropped in a moue of disbelief. “What…what did you _do_ to him?”

He winced at hearing her describe it that way. He kept the hurt out of his voice and said,

“He’s mine.".

“Holy…I can _see_ that,” she said, biting her lip. “And so can every other demon and angel, probably. You ought to keep that in mind.” She paused, squinting as she studied it all further. “Is that your name? Your celestial name?”

“It is. In Enochian.”

“He _survived_ that?” She fumbled for her cup and took several healthy swallows. “Oh my god. I never thought a demon _could_ live through something like that. It’s cut into him, like a scarification. It burns to look at — ! All that celestial lightning…Wait!” She turned to him and he felt so _seen_ of a sudden it struck him dumb and pinned him to his chair. “There’s a dark thread in your aura. It’s all through everything that makes you, well, you.”

“I suspected as much. We seem to have the ability to, er. Balance one another’s Hellish and Heavenly energies.”

“You act like a demon and he responds by acting like an angel?”

“Not acting, dear girl. It’s essences, isn’t it? Being a demon or an angel isn’t an affiliation. We weren’t _made_ like you. On a fundamental level we are something else entirely. And part of that is being crafted from pure magic, and using the energy of our respective sides for miracles and curses.”

“So you _are_ a demon, sometimes?”

“Oh Lord,” he exclaimed, grasping his cup in a grip he suddenly couldn’t trust. “When you put it that way…”

“Okay okay, I’m sorry. Off topic. We’ll come back to that later. It could be important.”

He knew she was trying to steer him away from another panic attack, and he let her captain him back to relatively calm waters.

“So it could be that Name, then. But he looks pretty thoroughly collared, so it means exactly what it’s meant to mean. The prophecy says the name doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

He fell silent, plumbing the depths of his mind.

“Our names, perhaps? As in Aziraphale, or Crowley? Or Raphael for that matter. Angelic and demonic names do tend to have meanings.”

“Well, what does Aziraphale mean?”

He smiled, a genuinely happy one this time.

“It means of Raphael. Azi or Azoi implies ‘of.’ And then -aphale is another way of indicating Raphael.”

“And Raphael is?”

“The Archangel Raphael. Crowley, before he was cast out.”

Anathema was silent so long he began to fret all over again. She took her glasses off and cleaned them on her skirt, and he had the cold feeling she was stalling for time. When she finally did speak, her voice sounded thick with unshed tears.

“Zira. It…could it mean Azrael?”

“The Archangel of Death? It could…oh…my God.”

_It’s not of Raphael. It’s the death of Raphael._

Anathema was speaking but he could no longer hear her. He felt once more that he was drowning, the sea pressing the air from his lungs. An awful dizziness overtook him, and he didn’t even realize he’d hit the ground; he passed out before it could register.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! <3 I hope all is well. Things are looking up for me even though I am very sick all the time lately (chronic illness). I hope things are looking up for you, too! The chapter title is a Kahlil Gibran quote (or part of one, rather). Please enjoy the descent into angst and rest assured you will all receive paper bags marked "dead dove do not eat" in the near-ish future. Take your meds and drink something! <3 <3 <3


	19. Palliative, But Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title is from this poem https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90279/the-big-loser or, a poem that casually came around and carved my heart out with a dull knife.

He awoke with Anathema crouched over him. Studying his face as if she were one breath away from prying his eyelids open, she looked like an ancient Egyptian surgeon about to cover him in leeches.

“Aziraphale!” She cried when he stirred. “God, you scared me. Better now?” She asked, helping him sit up. He was so disoriented that he let her do so.

Better? The concept felt cruel and foreign. He doubted he’d ever feel whole again, not after the dreadful confirmation of his worst fears. But Anathema looked so worried that he said: “Yes, dear girl. I’ll be fine.” 

_Was I truly created to destroy the one I love most? Would the Lord be so cruel, to name me after this unholy task? What have I done to deserve this?_

He understood now how Crowley’s questions had doomed him to Fall. Somehow, he knew it would be his fate too. Not for the wailing pleas of a desperate angel, the why why why directed at She who had made him. No. No matter what Crowley believed about the worth of demons. He knew that striking down his beloved would wreath him in flames and burn away his Grace. 

In a way, it was a comfort. He welcomed it as though he were the one stood with his arms open, waiting for a fatal blow.

Anathema clearly did not accept his lies about his mood. He clambered back into his chair. At that moment he felt every one of his years the way an elderly, exhausted human might. Granted, he’d fought, healed, and now this with only brief moments of respite. 

“I’m going to cook us all some dinner,” Anathema said, firm. “I’ll call Newt and have him help out.” He didn’t protest. 

* * *

“Angel, I found the dog. He was under the b- “

“I’m going to have to take up the sword again, aren’t I?”

Crowley stopped just past the door, his bare feet chilled by the cut stones of the patio. The warmth of Anathema’s cooking leeched away, leaving him shivering on the outside and bereft on the inside. It reminded him of the kind of odd emotional state he felt prone to lately, the kind that made him stand in a flower bed at midnight and sob.

Aziraphale sat at the table on the patio, faced away from him. Surrounded by cheerful striped patterns and a daffodil centerpiece Crowley had grown himself, Aziraphale still managed to look like the embodiment of melancholy. His bowed shoulders and the way he had his head leaned on his hand as if he were too weary to keep it up otherwise gave away his torment. 

“Angel?” 

Instead of responding, Aziraphale turned to him. For a moment, Zira had a look on his face no angel should ever have: the look of a man consumed by questions, yet suffering in utter silence. No answers forthcoming, when even God Herself had chosen to not do him even the courtesy of a hello. The way Crowley felt so often. The feeling that made him feel hollow and tenuous like a shade. 

But before he could say anything more, Zira’s expression changed. Something about it froze him in place. The beatific way hopelessness became adoration held him fast. Joy in humans enlivened Crowley, but angelic joy shone in a way no mortal feeling could.

Zira got up and walked towards him. Crowley felt rather like he’d stumbled into a fairy tale, only to find a unicorn approaching him with its mane alight with spirit-fire. 

Zira reached out to cup his cheek and Crowley lit up with the pleasure-pain of Love. The sheer depth struck him dumb as it was wont to do, like bone-needles through leather, like bubbles in a glass of frightfully expensive Cristal Rose. “Pay no attention to me, my dear,” Zira said.

Crowley’s vision went all funny as he saw the mundane and the ethereal at the same time, held still as if he'd been commanded to be. 

Zira looked as he always did, on the one hand. A sweet, middle-aged man with charming eccentricities that included dressing well (but entirely out of fashion), kindly, clear gaze and flawless skin that nonetheless had been blessed with smile-lines and crinkly crow’s feet.

But the Principality Aziraphale had made a home here too, a Presence that came from the center of Aziraphale’s Being. 

Uncountable eyes grew wetly into existence like fresh fruits, then opened to show their ultramarine centers. Aziraphale's six wings were pearlescent beyond the wildest dreams of mortal jewelers, even those with formidable imaginations. His feathers were diamond-sharp, and a pastel rainbow scintillated along their lengths when he moved them. It felt much different from Aziraphale’s ruffled, unkempt wings another world ago. 

He had to push away more details to stay conscious in his human skin.

Even though Zira had spent so much energy on the battle and its aftermath, Crowley still found himself trembling in the presence of such a divine being. If it weren’t for Aziraphale’s touch, he would have sunk to his knees in prayer.

“You’re upset,” Crowley said, breathless from all the magic coursing down his arms and prickling at the nape of his neck. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

Crowley saw Zira’s lion tail twitch in the other realm, quite noticeable when one’s skin and pelt shone like a perfect topaz just unearthed. 

“Come and sit,” Aziraphale said, letting him go. 

Aziraphale turned to take a seat at the patio table, and in a haze, Crowley dropped to all fours and crawled after him. Instead of claiming a chair for himself, he practically wound around Aziraphale’s leg. Trying, however piteously, to be of comfort.

Aziraphale chuckled, and it warmed Crowley’s core the way whiskey would when drunk with absolute abandon. As, of course, he was quite fond of doing. Sometimes to the point where a pub or a nightclub would try and bounce him only for the hired security thugs to turn away in abject terror after just one innocent little smile. 

“Well, my dear,” Crowley sighed in relief as he felt Zira’s fingers tangle up in his hair. “I never wanted the sword in the first place. I still don’t know why God saw it fit to gift it to me. I was created to be a soldier, but it’s a destiny I rejected.” 

“Hard to say, angel,” Crowley offered, leaning his head against Aziraphale’s thigh as Aziraphale continued to pet his hair. He felt his eyelids fluttering, and then fall closed as the relaxation built. 

He sensed Aziraphale wasn't telling him everything but even after a nap he didn’t have the energy to try and tease it out of his angel. 

“We know better than anyone that you can’t predict her plans. But why’s that got you out of sorts?” 

“I picked up a sword again, Crowley. I felt…rage. I felt _bitter._ I felt played by Fate. By Her. Not to mention I was sure I was about to watch you and Wendy expire on our living room floor. In _our house.”_

Crowley felt a chill the way only a snake could, as an immediate threat to one’s continued survival. It hadn’t been long since he’d lain there broken in that room, dying by inches with his guts hanging out. 

“We’re okay, Zira,” he said, speaking against the warm fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers. “I know how awful it must’ve been, but we’re here. Alive.” 

“Thank God for that, my dear,” Aziraphale said, voice robbed of its power by the swift talons of grief. He was silent for several long moments. 

But before Crowley could break said silence, Aziraphale beat him to it. 

“But then,” Aziraphale kept going, despite the quaver in his voice. “But then, _you_ came out here. I looked at you, and the lights from inside the house had bathed you in a soft glow. You looked like an angel, one with its wings out, come to deliver me a message. And you did just that.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale in shock. Aziraphale had his eyes on the water beyond their property, but his hand involuntarily tightened in Crowley’s hair enough that Crowley had to bite his lip bloody to avoid interrupting. 

“The message,” Aziraphale said, refocusing on him. Crowley trembled, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. But of course, he saw only the kind of Love that filled his being with thorns, probing deep into the heart of him. “Was that I ought to stop feeling sorry for myself; that sword, taking it up…it helped save you and Wendy. Maybe…if I can’t avoid wielding it, it can be used for good.” 

Crowley refused to think about whether Arondight would be the sword to take his life.

He squirmed into Aziraphale’s lap, hugging him tightly. He tucked his face against Aziraphale’s neck, the comforting traces of cologne and old books soothing his heartbeat back to something approaching normal. 

The new cologne made Aziraphale smell of bergamot and amber, with a faint hint of dried orange and honey. Crowley could (and did) get drunk on it. 

“The two of you are my life, Crowley. I want you to know that. There is no being in Heaven or Hell that could compare, nothing on this earth I love so much as I love you both. And you, my dear, oh.” 

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s tender hand cup his chin, tilting his head up a little. He had his eyes closed, again feeling that he couldn’t look directly at his lover while Aziraphale was projecting such endless magnificence. The ghost of a kiss alighted on his hairline as Zira spoke, then another on the chiseled plane of his cheekbone. 

“Never have I seen anything so lovely as you,” Zira continued, until Crowley could hardly stand the praise, breath stolen as if someone had reached in and crumpled his lungs. Praise he craved with every fiber of his being, praise that made him blush and quiver. “Not in Heaven, not on earth. And I have seen the Seraphim attending the Lord.” 

Crowley felt a kiss, insistent this time, on his lips. He opened for Zira immediately, letting Zira deepen the contact into a claiming. 

“You taste better than the finest buttercream,” Aziraphale said when the contact ended. Crowley tried his damndest to keep a moan hidden inside himself, but he couldn’t stop the whimper at being told such things. “You are a rare illuminated manuscript I hunger to read.” 

“Zira,” Crowley managed, caught in Zira’s embrace. “You’re going to kill me,” he blurted, without time to think about his words.

“I’d rather do it this way." Zira whispered, and Crowley's heart came to a dead stop for a moment. "With sweetness. Or do you think you do not deserve praise, my love? Oh, but you do. If anything, you’ve gone wanting for six thousand years. What can I do but try and make it up to you?”

Zira paused, drawing a heavy breath. “No matter what the prophecy decrees, I will tend to you. I will do everything in my power to keep you with me. And until that terrible day, I will give you all of my love. We will wring the last drops of joy out of this world before everything goes dark. I swear it.” 

A human’s oath couldn’t compare to an angel’s. It was as if the starstuff that made up Aziraphale’s very core had heard, and sealed the promise with the sound of church bells. 

Crowley shifted so he could straddle Zira’s hips, and now it was his turn to cradle Zira’s face in reverent hands. He wished he could just improvise the way Zira did, say such wonderful things without having to even think about it. But actions? Those, he was a master of.

Like Zira, perhaps he was desperate to do just as Zira had described: wring the last drops of joy and normalcy from the tapestry of life. 

“Let me do something for you,” he said, letting every one of his emotions do as they wished in his unveiled gaze, let it burn with Love and the willingness to submit, the things he never showed anyone else. 

He could hardly feel self-conscious with Aziraphale’s gaze on him, as though his snake features were entrancing instead of repulsive. Aziraphale’s eyes gleamed, too, with the complexity of an abalone shell in a beam of summer sunlight. 

“And what do you have in mind, pet?” Crowley had the embarrassing urge to tear all his clothes off right there, like he usually did when the word _pet_ came from Aziraphale’s lips. “Let me suck your cock,” Crowley said in a rush, praying that Aziraphale would let him do so, and not just because Crowley was aching for it. 

Nothing quite cleared the mind like a good orgasm, and Aziraphale happened to have quite a bit on his mind. 

“Please…” Crowley had to take a long moment to steady himself before he added, “master.” He heard Aziraphale’s sharp inhale, but before he could worry he’d crossed a line Aziraphale’s hard cock told him otherwise. 

“When you ask so nicely,” Aziraphale said, “how could I say no?” Crowley slithered down to a kneeling position, such need driving him as he’d never felt before. As a demon he didn’t need food or water or even to breathe, yet somehow he knew the sensation of desperately craving something integral to one’s immediate well being. 

Aziraphale looked at him expectantly and gave a little nod, permission for Crowley to undo his buttons and belt. Crowley found his hands were shaking when he went to work on the closures keeping him from Zira’s cock. Zira shifted positions a little to give him better access. It involved Zira spreading his legs, and Crowley knew he was nigh on drooling in anticipation. 

He drew Aziraphale’s cock free, a strange little thrill going through him at the fact that otherwise, Zira was still dressed. Vague fantasies flickered through his mind, not the least of which had to do with being a hired whore. 

He nuzzled down into the soft spot where Zira's balls met Zira's cock, reveling in the scent of musk. He and Zira had spent so long posing as humans that he'd come to love Zira's corporation, just like this. Just flesh on flesh, a thing other celestials and infernals would have found disgusting at best. Perhaps they could understand the draw to merge on the ethereal plane, as he and Zira had become so practiced in, but _rubbing corporations together?_

Not above being a tease. he gently rolled those heavy balls on his tongue before drawing them into his mouth. He heard Zira's gasp. He puffed up with pride, inspired to give Zira another working over. If anything could be said of him, it was that he had incredible control and versatility when it came to using his tongue. 

He dragged that cursed tongue along the bottom of Zira's cock, so it sat pillowed between the forks. Zira's hand in his hair this time was a foregone conclusion, the grip hard as if Zira needed something, anything to ground him. 

The scents and impressions carried to the roof of his mouth drove him all the further into a space where nothing mattered but what he was doing to the person right in front of him. Not Tisiphone, not the prophecy. Nothing. 

He drifted, world narrowing down to pleasing Zira in every way possible. 

Sure he already looked like an absolute wreck, he saw no reason to slow down and gulped Zira's length in such a needy manner that Zira outright moaned. Zira's hips lifted and Crowley swallowed again when the head of Zira's cock hit him roughly in the back of his throat. All he could think about was Zira's eventual release and the delicious, burning seed that would fill him as a consequence. 

There was no embarrassment in this place without worry or thought; he sucked Zira's cock as greedily as he wanted. 

"Crowley," Zira said in a strangled, barely-there whisper. A second later and Zira was squeezing his shoulder in warning. He didn't move away. Instead, he took Zira's cock down his throat as far as it could go. 

He choked on the come that filled him exactly as he hoped, struggling to swallow. His eyes streamed with tears at the effort, and he was sure he was red in the face to top it off. Zira's regard felt like a ray of sunlight about to burn the poor fool who had stood too long under its blessings, but Crowley let Zira see exactly how undone he was. 

An overabundance of self-preservation was not one of his greatest traits.

Zira tapped him on the shoulder again: permission to stop. He pulled away slowly, licking his lips for any come he'd missed. Was this how humans felt when they knew they'd done something to the best of their abilities? He felt as pliant as if he'd been sedated, and his snake-self felt warm and sated. 

"My God, I love you so much," Zira said, dragging him up by his hair to give him an open-mouthed kiss that left no doubt to whether Zira was pleased. "Thank you, my dear. I rather think I needed that."

"I know you did," Crowley muttered, blushing another shade deeper. He crawled into Zira's lap, winding his arms loosely around Zira's neck. "S'my job, isn't it? I don't know...servicing you?"

He asked, sounding far meeker than he would have liked. 

Zira's smile soothed away his negative associations, as it often did. How could the other demons condemn him so? They'd never truly gazed into Zira's eyes. 

"I suppose so, pet," Zira whispered against his ear, Zira's hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Zira continued after a thoughtful moment or two. "You know, Anathema called you collared earlier. What I mean to say is...do you want one?" 

"Dress me up like an actual pet?" He asked, chuckling wearily against Zira's curls. "Maybe. I have your feather already but I wouldn't say no to something else."

As if he would turn away even the simplest of Zira's gifts, let alone something that marked him as owned.

"Hmm. Something that glitters? Something that's made to look like slave's shackles? A padlock and chain?"

"Oh, that last one," he blurted, his brain ahead of him but still quite correct. 

"Easy enough," Zira said, rewarding him with a kiss and a bite to his exposed throat. "Let's go inside. You've pleasured me perfectly, but..." 

The promise of more hung clear and legible in the night air.

_Music to my god-forsaken ears._

Zira paused.

"Do you mind if I carry you?"

"No," he said, too quickly. Zira raised an eyebrow at that.

"Well, I shall carry you at every opportunity then."

Zira picked him up as if he weighed nothing, then marched inside and up the stairs to their bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! <3


	20. A Portion for Foxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy ventures into Hogback to search for her friends

The wind picked up the morning Wendy decided to check Hogback for her friends. It hadn’t been so long that she was panicking, but still. It didn’t seem right, them not coming round like usual.

She’d chosen her clothing that morning as deliberately as Mum chose his own most days, a long dress in layers of black and blue with an asymmetrical tunic of gauzy grey over the top. She leant down to double-tie her boot laces, and when she stood up again she bound her hair up and pinned it out of the way.

She watched the reeds bend at the waterline from her window for a moment before turning to go downstairs.

“Mum?” She called, the sitting room empty.

She took her black wool coat from its hook and was just tying the bow and arranging the cape over her shoulders when Mum came in from the kitchen.

“What is it, starlight?” He asked. “You look like you’re about to go steal someone’s soul.”

“No,” she said. He smiled. It reminded her of a banked fire throwing shadows and sparks, the occasional crackle cutting through the relative quiet. His under-eyes were so dark they looked like bruises, and his fingers trembled when he reached up to touch his snake tattoo as if it were hurting him. “But I do think something might be wrong.”

“Wrong?” Mum perked up at that, though the two of them realized at the same time that Mum wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. Mum looked around for them, touched the place on his front where he might have hung them from the collar of his shirt, patted his trouser pocket.

It wasn’t much. Anyone could misplace their glasses. Yet she remembered what it had been like to see her grandmother waste away in a care home; it had started with misplacing small things, until eventually she’d forgotten faces and names.

Could that even happen to demons? Was six thousand years considered old?

A chill gnawed at her jawbone and pecked at her skull. She hid it, instead crossing the distance and plucking the glasses from where they were perched on Mum’s head. She offered them to him.

“Here they are,” she said, forcing a smile as he had just moments earlier. He took them from her, sighing with relief, but then seemed to come to a stop before putting them on. He stared at them as if he couldn’t remember what step came next. “Anyway, it’s just…I haven’t seen Adam and the Them for awhile.”

“Feels off to you?”

He said, focusing on her face again.

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re probably right. I’ll go with you.”

“No Mum, it’s okay. It’s just Hogback.” Mum’s mouth thinned into a disapproving line. She remembered it quite well, that look, from when she’d been a small child. Though Nanny had never been much for corporal punishment, his disapproval could take paint off a wall at twenty paces.

“I’ll take Dis,” she added, hurriedly.

“All right. But at the first sign of danger -“

At first she wanted to snap and say she wasn’t a baby and didn’t need to be lectured - hadn’t she watched him turn into a snake and not flinched? Hadn’t she attacked Tisiphone with nothing but a knife and a kettle? - but something about the ever so slight gaunt quality to his cheeks made her stop and reconsider.

“Mum? What’s -“

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. “Take the damn mutt and go check.”

She hugged him. He tensed, surprised maybe, but then hugged her in return. He was a demon, and yet she could feel so little fire. As thin as a line of graphite, she could _feel_ the burden on his already overtaxed shoulders.

“I have something for you,” he said when they parted. He reached in the pocket of his perfectly pressed coat and pulled out a ring, shaped like a winding serpent in blue opal. “Here.”

“What’s this for?” She said. She took it and examined it. “It’s so pretty.”

“Just…no matter what happens, I love you. I’m with you.”

“I know that. I love you too,” she said, slipping the ring on. Before she could question him further, Dis came bounding down the stairs and almost knocked her over. The moment broken, she stepped back.

Dad waved to her in acknowledgment of her leaving and went out the back door again to the garden.

* * *

She whistled for Dis and he came to her side. He didn’t bounce or bark as usual, but instead paced beside her as if he’d been taught to guard. She glanced down at him, and saw him looking this way and that as though something might spring out at them at any time.

“It’s just Tadfield, sir hound,” she said, trying to summon up some of the excitement that came from Adam’s games. How long had it been since they’d played a game? “Do you think we might find some knights there?”

Dis didn’t respond.

“Well,” she said, suddenly very aware she was alone. “knights are silly anyway.”

Normally she would have preferred to play vampires or wicked creatures that changed shape and took a person’s place, but the idea just felt like a rope around her neck instead.

For once, she craved dandelions and dragonflies.

She drew her coat tighter around herself. Though the coat was knee length and lined with curly fleece, the chill still found its way through as she crunched through the fallen leaves. Those leaves had turned the lane into a splendor of faded color, a grand spiral to please the Good Folk.

The thought made her mouth go dry with fear.

She kept going, darkness falling much sooner than it should have.

Hogback was not a large wood by any means, or at the least it was always possible to find one’s way home with little effort. Not now. It felt endless, like no matter how much she walked the further she got from the exit.

_If there even is an exit._

She stopped, looking around her in a circle. She’d reached Adam’s throne, just as if the Them had all just got up and left for a moment. But even this landmark couldn’t help orient her.

It wasn’t the eeriness that would have come if all the nature sounds had gone silent. It was more like every mundane creature, every fox, stoat, starling, had become creatures more suited to carrying souls in their claws.

She pulled her hood up over her pinned hair and rubbed at her gloved hands.

“Hello?” She said, and immediately kicked herself. What was this? A horror movie? And even if she were surrounded by cryptids and Fae and tits knew what else, if they answered it wouldn’t exactly put her mind at ease.

The shadow that passed over her head plunged her into total darkness. It extinguished the breath in her throat, like a snuffer on an altar candle. The matrices of pulsing light that represented her life force projected from her chest, a complex shape that rotated before her stunned eyes.

A pair of immense black wings swallowed the forest whole.

* * *

Dis barked, once.

Wendy found herself standing in the same spot, as if she’d been commanded to hold in place. Leaves were caught in her hair. A fox skeleton lay curled up at her feet. A glimmering trail of lights broke the blackness for a bare second, as if she’d turned her head just in time to miss a comet.

She recognized the presence, from when it had collected thick in the house while she and mum lay on the floor dying.

“Death? You’re not here for me.” She said. She wasn’t sure if she meant it as a statement or as a question. She tried to cover her fear as if it were the former.

She squared her stance as if she could somehow beat the shit out of Death itself. “Didn’t Dad tell you to piss off?”

She found she’d balled her hands into fists. Something about today, so full of ill portents, had made her boil over.

“Why MEDDLE?” She shouted, not having realized her own anger till then. “All you HOLIER THAN THOU powers running about moving us humans around like pieces on a chessboard! You act like we don’t matter!” She thought of Tisiphone invading their house, the way she’d torn Mum’s guts out like washing line. “Well, FUCK OFF!”

Death, if he were actually present, said nothing. Her head of steam started to dissipate, leaving her exhausted and resentful.

But before her emotions could turn to despair, someone said:

“Seeking answers?”

She turned around, startled, only to find Anathema stood there like a shrine icon.

The witch wore her blue and green tartan coat, open at the front this time, and a skirt of ashen-colored wool gathered at her ankles. Her teal cardigan was belted with dark blue silk, and her pointed-toe boots looked like perched crows. A pendant in the shape of a gibbous moon hung low around her neck.

Her eyes were darker than usual, as if she had just shaken off a possessing force. Her features had crowded in close, pinched with concern. She had dowsing rods held tight in both hands.

It took Wendy a moment to realize the rods were pointing right at her.

“W…what?” Wendy said, not necessarily feeling better at seeing a familiar face. The wood had lost none of its uncharacteristic sinister nature; for a moment she wondered if it were like the stories from back home where an evil sorcerer or spirit could take on the shape of someone you trusted only to do something unspeakable. “You’re not going to eat my liver, are you?”

She asked, backing up slowly as if she were facing another monster disguised as a delivery person. Though she noted Dis hadn't gone mad at the sight of Anathema as he would have if it was an evil entity masquerading with Anathema's body. 

“It’s really me,” Anathema said, lowering the dowsing rods. “A prophecy came to me today, that I would find something essential in the woods. It looks like that’s you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I heard you shouting at the sky earlier,” Anathema said in a seeming non-sequitur. “Come with me and we’ll figure this out.”

Anathema offered her hand. Wendy offered hers in return, her own fingers pale and small, the opalescent little snake ring glinting, dull, in what little light remained.

* * *

Anathema shouldered open the door of Jasmine Cottage. A puff of air redolent of lavender and rue hit Wendy as she crossed the threshold and stepped inside with Dis behind her. The scent of vanilla cream candles lent their powdery-sweet notes to the darkened kitchen, and a puff of rosemary made her mouth water.

The most prominent item in the kitchen was a rough-paneled dining table in blond wood, covered in Anathema’s things. She had several books open to pages that contained full ink-reproductions of what looked to be summoning circles and protection sigils.

A smaller book beside it was covered margin to margin in Anathema’s writing, which looked exactly how a witch’s writing should: spidery and hurried as if her brain were working far ahead of her hand. A pendulum of rose-quartz crafted in a pyramid shape marked the page.

An inkwell sat nearby, the quill-pen set haphazardly to the side. A tiny pottery dish smoked with the embers of what had once been mugwort and apple blossom incense. A teacup and teapot, someone’s old china in a blue pattern, took up the nearest corner.

Anathema lead her into the sitting room. The windowsill on the far wall was taken up with a collection of crystals, shells, and water vials. The curtains were open so that a shaft of moonlight illuminated the objects so carefully placed there, making a scattering of foiled tarot cards shine.

A fire was going in the wood stove. Bundles of dried herbs, onions, and peppers hung from the ceiling. They had their sitting room arranged vertical from the window, a big couch, a scarred coffee table, and two armchairs. Some much put-upon striped rugs sat askew here and there.

They’d caught Newt just as he was rising from the couch to meet Anathema, setting aside his copy of Computeractive Magazine. He looked much more practical than Anathema in his navy jumper and jeans. He had a sensible haircut and glasses that looked like they’d been bought off a rack at the drugstore.

“Oh, Wendy!” He said. “It’s good to see you. We were worried,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose just the way Wensleydale sometimes did.

Something about his sheer normalcy knocked her emotions loose, and her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes stung with tears. Newt frowned.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, shaking her head. “I don’t know why this is happening.”

Anathema put a hand on her shoulder, just like when she’d been heading to bed after the battle with Tisiphone with Anathema steering her upstairs. This time, Anathema steered her to an armchair and sat her firmly in it.

She looked down at her hands, wrung together in her lap.

“All I’ve ever wanted was for magic to be real,” she said, not understanding why being in this living room with these relative strangers had made the words tumble out. “But now that it is…”

“You almost died,” Newt pointed out. “And Crowley too, by an actual, literal monster. I mean…I don’t think our human minds are supposed to see things like that.”

She watched her tears fall and spatter her skirts, furious with herself and not truly knowing why.

“I was supposed to find you,” Anathema said, sitting beside Newt and patting his knee. “I don’t write prophecies the same way Agnes did. Or, nto always. I…feel them. I find them. I think I know why I found you there in the woods.”

She looked up, trying not to sniffle like a little girl who was about to wipe her nose on her sleeve.

“Why?”

Anathema smiled that funny half-smile that often graced her face. She rose, crossed the distance, and knelt. Wendy let Anathema take her left hand, so that it was between Anathema’s two. Only a moment’s contact, and Anathema drew away to reveal a crystal Wendy couldn’t name in the shape of a heart.

“Step inside the circle if you dare,” Anathema said, the words more flowery than she would usually use, like she was reciting something, “little witch.”


	21. The One Unrivaled Mane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wensleydale finishes his first tale

Wensley watched Pepper race after the alicorn for a moment, then turned and approached Manannan mac Lir. Doing so necessitated traveling through the mist, and thereby into another world. No. a world within a world within a world. The beach he’d watched Pepper run down became an abstract painting. The beach before him with its grey rocks and broken shells undulated as if it were breathing.

The god himself might as well have grown out of the dock he stood upon, gnarled like driftwood. And yet, he did not convey the air of old age. His spine stood straight and true as an arrow, or like the charred but deadly javelins he wore on his back. His clothes consisted of rain-slick seal skins.  He wore wet handmade brogues and a cloak of cormorant feathers pinned at his collarbone with a triskelion brooch .

Manannan turned to regard him, his salt-roughened beard and ragged, rakish hair stirred by the breeze  .  Elaborate beading and plaiting of said same made him look  kingly  , or more  accurately  , chieftain-like . His eyes were unbroken fields of white, and Wensley did not know how to act under the weight of such a gaze.

_How does one act in front of a god?_

A song perked up his ears as he drew closer still.  Though the words were in a language he did not understand, _should_ _not_ understand, they were nonetheless  effortlessly  intelligible . 

Its performer was the first shape to resolve itself.  She took on the characteristics of a female-shaped creature with golden combs in her long black hair  .  She wore a dress of acacia leaves - he recognized them from his copy of _The Ultimate Tree Guide_ \-  boldly  colored against her fair, brown skin .

He understood her to be beautiful.  Yet when he tried to focus on her face and note its features, the only things he could perceive were a smattering of snake scales and two huge golden eyes .

Beside her stood a man in patterned, woven cloth in bright colors.  He reminded Wensley of the time the Them had decided to be Masai warriors after Pepper had seen them in an edition of National Geographic  . The man  held a spear, crafted with such skill Wensley couldn’t take his eyes off it for a long while; it had a small sun enveloping the tip  .  For a moment, even while standing in frigid spray, he could smell grasslands baking in the afternoon light .

The man’s deep, dark complexion, adorned with orange and yellow face paint, stood out all the more in contrast to the markings  .  As Wensley studied him he felt a frisson of joy and laughter, almost as if the emotions themselves were rising from the earth itself and into the soles of their feet  . A trickster,  perhaps  , but one who meant no true harm. His eyes were twin suns,  just  like the one at the tip of his weapon.

The man stood barefoot, his braided hair and slender neck adorned with beads and shells.  When Wensley looked at him out of the corner of his eye, lions and gazelles raced down the lines of his clothes, and he took on a gilded glow . His wings stretched out to their full length, the rainbow glory of a parrot or a lorikeet.

The third figure also had a feminine form, but one made of solid water.  It was as if some loving sculptor had willed her into being with the sheer force of his artistic vision; Wensley could all but see the gentle thumb pads that had created the curve of her under-eyes, like a potter with clay .

She had a sense of unfamiliarity about her; she had come from no river or ocean that he could name. Her thick braid was the darkest slate blue-grey, with the innermost plait a vibrant teal. Oyster pearls made up the beading on her seaweed regalia, and she wore a skirt made of pebbles and fishing nets.

“Wensleydale,” Manannan said in a voice made of slow-rolling waves.”These are my most esteemed friends  . They are under my hospitality and move here  freely . They have come to visit me, but are also willing to test you.”

Wensley looked between the three of them.  They all introduced themselves, names he couldn't remember later in the land of the living . Each of them spoke in their own language, but he understood them. That too would have awed him in the mundane world, but in Tir na Nog it only seemed right.

“If you would claim your mount,” Manannan continued, pointing with one of his javelins out over the sea. “Walk on water, and discern trickery from reality.”

“Walk on water?” Wesley blurted, adjusting his glasses.  He’d accepted much about the Otherworld since taking the bough from An Daga, but  occasionally  his skeptical tendencies still rose up  . Even with three  entirely  supernatural entities standing in front of him.  All of  those entities looked amused, glancing at one another and chuckling. “I didn’t think Irish gods knew that trick.”

“You think sweet Yeshua is the only one who can master water?” Manannan snorted.

The man with the bright wings knocked the butt of his spear against the ground and grinned.

“Yemoja laughs at you, young one,” he said, his unadulterated amusement, so free of spite or nastiness, nowhere near enough to offend Wensley . If anything, he found himself smiling in return.

“Go on, my friends. Test my young warrior,” Mannanan said. As Wensley watched, each  being transformed  into a white horse with a mane of foam.  Standing  easily  sixteen hands, each majestic beast pawed the ground beneath it in an identical manner, synchronized with its fellows .

And then they were off, churning the ocean’s surface as if it were a stretch of racetrack in a downpour.  A fourth mare met the herd - he assumed Manannan’s entry into this contest - and soon the beasts were impossible to tell apart . They disappeared into the grey cloud cover.

_So all the fae are real, but the horse I am supposed to find is hiding in plain sight._

Only then did Wensley feel urgency. He approached the bank, doubt making his knees wobble. Walk on water? His very way of thinking rebelled against it. Impossible, it said, despite the evidence of his own eyes.  Perhaps  those beings could do it, but he was mortal. He had to adhere to logic and physics and structure.

Didn’t he? Hadn’t he told Pepper they had the power to do  just  about anything?

“Call your guide,” Manannan said, and it sounded nothing like when Madame Tracy was on about spirit guides in one of her seances  .  Plainly , this was real.

But that didn’t explain who or what his guide _was._ Without thinking he bent and touched the sand beneath his feet, trying to focus on requesting help even though his mind was going mad trying to tell him how stupid  all of  this was .

A weight settled on his shoulders. When he straightened and looked, he saw a harrier hawk perched there. Despite that, he felt no pain from its talons.  It was not a usual bird, either; it was as if it had taken shape from pure molten gold that still shimmered and gleamed, passing over its body in sheets of preternatural glory when it moved .

**And you were only two years old and feeble was your frame,**

**I could not leave you with your friends, you bore your father's name…**

Grandmother. Of course.  The sacred oak where the ancestor spirits perched and sang with bird throats, yet in doing so told the stories of the People . As if she were whispering encouragement in his ear, he faced the challenge.

He squeezed his eyes shut so tight it made his sinuses throb. Trembling, he stepped forward. One foot, still  firmly  on the bank. The second, out into nothingness.

It wasn't at all like wading into a mundane sea back home. No cold shock as flesh met wave. No heaviness as his clothing took on weight.  Instead he felt weigh t _less_ , the most minuscule of feedback vibrating through his legs with his every step .

Soon, he was running. Without thinking, he filled the water beneath his feet with salmon.  Some ancestral memory or voice made him understand that at one time in the real world, salmon were so plentiful that they swam side by side, turning the ocean into an interlocking silver pattern that could  be seen  for kilometres and kilometres .

The first horse came into his field of vision, its  impossibly  long, delicate legs working at capacity as it raced over the ocean and through the low-hanging clouds  .  The fog swallowed it up again, but Wensley could still perceive flashes of white as it lashed its tail and tossed its head .

Despite  being infused  with the magic of this place, Wensley just couldn't  match pace with a horse  . But he needn’t have worried.  Once the horse recognized it was being pursued it turned and started to gallop towards him as if it meant to trample him under its pristine silver hooves .

The immediate urge to flee rattled his bones like a storm-wind against a windowpane. Only when the horse was about to barrel into him did he fight down the urge; running away just felt incorrect. His quick mind turned the situation into a calculation: he knew these horses were all Fae, except the real one.

He stared at the massive animal about to crush him, his mind working overtime. Given that they were Fae, they would have to respect traditions. He cast back into his memories so far that what he did have was hazy and patchy. Yet, he heard his aunts talking in the kitchen, talking about other witches who had made a grave mistake.

_Don’t they know not to accept gifts from the Fae? At least wear your shirt inside out when you go walk in the woods!_

He had mere seconds and he  practically  shredded his shirt as he tugged it over his head. With shaky hands, he turned it inside out and put it back on.

The horse stopped hard, its face inches from his face. The wind’s fingers plucked at its mane, sending a fine mist of moisture over him.  Yet the anxiety of everything that was happening made his reactions almost non-existent, numb from sheer terror . He was glad of it though when the horse’s form broke apart like mist, and the man with parrot wings stepped out grinning.

He rattled his spear against his shield, laughing.  His  clothes stood out against the fog and the grey water like a stoplight . For a moment Wensley’s worries lifted from his overburdened heart. It was hard to feel terror in the face of such freedom and joy.

“Only three left,” the man said, stretching his wings as if his horse disguise had been rather cramped.  They were a glowing glory, vermilion, ocher, blue verditer, and for an instant Wensley felt the enlivening heat of a desert sun  . The fae pivoted, stood on one foot. Before Wensley could wonder, the fae  launched himself into the sky and  quickly  gaining so much altitude that he was no longer visible from one second to the next .

Wensley shivered, wishing in a way he thought of as  shamefully  pitiful that the fae hadn’t left him here with four more horses to face, taking the warmth with him  . The scintillating hawk on his shoulder hopped down to his forearm.  He couldn’t resist petting the bird’s head; some scrap of his grandmother still lingered in this fantastical animal .

He ranged out further than he'd ever expected to go, to the point where the bank  was obscured when he looked back  . Something deep inside him told him he should sing, so he did. He kept his thoughts on his grandmother; only through her could he beat this.  The bird joined him with chirps and cries, and each sound made images flicker in his mind’s eye; the hearth-fire, a rank of painted warriors, the spirit-friend in the shape of a hare who had brought him here in the first place .

Only when another horse appeared did he realize he’d been singing in Irish, which he definitely hadn’t known when he’d started this journey. Perhaps consequently, this horse -another beautiful, slender-limbed animal with a mane of fog - remained motionless instead of barreling towards him. It had haunting eyes, a blue not found in nature. Those eyes regarded him, depth-less, revealing little.

He summoned the Bough to his hand. It’s weight was very much felt, but he had less difficulty hefting it this time. It bent a little under the weight of its apples, each one  perpetually  at the height of perfection. He saw the horse’s gaze flicker,  just  a little. Then it turned as if it were about to flee.

He started to sing again, knowing that it might be his only chance to trick this creature. He didn’t know how to lay a geas or anything like that, but there was power in language and even more power in singing.  He spared a glance for the trumpeting birds wheeling overhead, each connected with a silver chain one to the other  .  The site of something so  otherworldly  gave him confidence, as if they were approving of his actions .

The song might not be  fully  understandable to his own ears, but he knew it was a coaxing melody, one that eased the mare’s fears, predisposing her to trust him  . In fact, she came towards him, though her steps were tentative.  He plucked an especially full and golden apple from the Bough and held it out to her on his open palm, singing soft and low, almost as if he were trying to lull her to sleep .

She took the gift and guided it into her mouth.  The moment she crunched through the skin and the juice hit her tongue, her horse disguise fell apart all at once as if a wave had crashed over it and washed away the illusion  .  It left one very sheepish elemental in its wake, an elemental who looked at him as if he’d caught her stealing biscuits  . Her lips  were smeared  with the glossy syrup from the apple.

Before he could say anything she flashed a grin at him reminiscent of her friend’s tendency to go around in a constant state of delight and dove below the surface, her nature making her spread out into a series of currents that left dark streaks under his feet .

“One more, grandmother. Or  maybe  we will be lucky and choose right this time.”

He spoke to himself as he strode over the sea of glass.

“What can I do against the last illusion?” The apple and turning his clothes inside out were about the only things he knew to try.  He thought of the only fae remaining, the brown-skinned woman dressed in acacia leaves with combs in her hair  . “  Maybe  a shiny bauble?”

He’d seen more than one crow in Hogback fiddle with those exact things, sometimes for hours. But where would he find something that would take a fae’s attention?

He found himself looking down at his feet - no, he was peering under the water. He saw the salmon, so plentiful it made his heart swell with an unnameable but poignant emotion.  They shone as their bodies slithered and leapt against one another, proud, broad fins and tails flashing .

Before he could think on it, he found himself underwater himself. He struggled for a moment, his body insisting that he needed to breathe. A moment later, though, he felt the water pass through his lungs like air.  The fish pressed up against him at every angle, frothing the sea’s surface via their excitement; it was if they were reacting to him in particular  .  Perhaps  they could sense that he wasn’t  just  Wensley a twelve year old child, but Plenty as well.

He swam, reaching his hand out for who knew what.  He focused his mind on finding the thing he needed; being Plenty, he reasoned, ought to work for him when he was wanting .

Indeed he found himself closing his fingers around a salmon’s dorsal fin. For a moment it towed him along  awkwardly  , though it was  mostly  his fault as he couldn’t coordinate his own limbs.  Then he worked out how to swim with the fish instead of against, and they shot through the water such that wild excitement burbled out of him in a way that was addicting .

The other salmon all around them made the ocean a kaleidoscope of primal color, rays of gold shooting down amongst them as the ancestor-bird opened its wings above and kept pace .

~take my scales,~ the salmon whispered into his mind. A length of them came off in his hand, twirling around his wrist and up his arm.  Each scale appeared as a tiny jewel, and Wensley saw the fae woman’s hair combs with these scales attached like strands of seed pearls . ~go, Plenty. Speak with our voice in the outerworld.~

And then he was bobbing up above the surface, coughing for a moment as his lungs changed to breathe as normal again . With only a small flexion of his will he stood atop the waves once more. He sighed in relief as the ancestor-bird landed on his shoulder again, and he looked around for his next test.

He walked straight through a low hanging cloud, but he felt as if he could see and hear  just  fine despite his vision whiting out . He belonged here.

* * *

Two horses were waiting for him on the other side. They stood with only a few feet between them, and they were identical.  They fixed him with the same expectant expression, as if waiting for him to make his final pronouncement on which of them was the real beast . He paused, studying each for the tiniest details.

And there it was.  So subtle he would have missed it  entirely  if the glow from his ancestor-bird hadn’t picked out even the most subtle shift in color and hue .

The horse on his left had an acacia leaf facial marking.

It was  barely  there, picked out in ivory against the hotel-bedsheets-white of its hide.

For the first time in a long time, Wensley smiled.

“Come and get your prize,” he told the horse, unspooling the  otherworldly  scales from around his arm. The length of them pooled at his feet, and the fae-horse watched them gleam as if compelled to. “Come, and I will put them in your hair for you.”

The horse stepped towards him, but then the disguise came apart like cotton fluff and the last fae stepped out, coming to take his free hand in hers  . She didn’t speak, but she knelt so Wensley could pin the long lengths of scales to the combs in her hair. When it  was done  she looked even more radiant than when he had first met her, which seemed an impossibility.

She smiled, kissed his cheek, and disappeared.

He found himself face to face with the remaining horse, the real one this time. Once more he felt frozen, as he had at the beginning of this journey when he’d been trying to step out onto the waves. But instead of fear, he felt like the embodiment of the moment after a church bell rings.  Everything inside him had gone as quiet and still as the water he stood on, now confident with a wide-legged stance, his shoulders squared, his chin up .

The animal paced towards him and pressed its muzzle into his open hand.

* * *

Those souls that passed by the sacred oak and the ancestors there heard new story that day:

~And that is how WensleyPlenty accepted his fate and tamed the daughter of Enbarr.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! How is quarantine treating you all? I'm sorry this took me FUCKING AGES but I am an essential worker and wow has it been kicking my ass. That said I do have several more chapters at least half done! Thank you for sticking with me and my story. :)


	22. The Wound Is The Place Where The Light Enters You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Beez have a slap fight. Enemies become friends, of a sort. Angels show up, not for any good reason. Aziraphale is feral.

Anathema withdrew and knelt across from her on the carpet, the coffee table between them. Wendy studied the indigo crystal in her hand. When she saw a shimmer there she almost dropped it. She gasped; had she just seen magic? No, not just seen. She’d seen more magic than most humans ever would. This time she’d _sensed_ it. She’d _detected_ it, like a Geiger counter. 

She pocketed the little heart, and she swore she could feel it pulse with energy, energy she had been blind to before her walk in the woods.

Newt turned up with a tea set in hand that he set on the coffee table without so much as rattling the sugar spoons. He had an unassuming, quiet vibe that she appreciated, and she felt comfortable when he had to lean over her a bit to put the tray down. Anathema’s eyes shone whenever she caught sight of him, like she was now. 

She took her teacup with trembling hands, cradling it in her grasp since she didn’t trust herself to manage it by holding just the handle. A violets-and-rose-jam scent arose from it, and the first sip relaxed her enough that she shuddered. 

“Will you teach me?” 

Anathema’s eyes were owlish behind the round lenses of her glasses, warm with excitement and keen with wisdom. 

“I would love to.” Anathema paused for a long time then. Wendy tried not to fidget, or show that she was looking furtively around the room. Anathema still had the drawing of the Great Beast pinned to the wall. It wasn’t as hard for Wendy to associate it with Adam as it maybe was for others; she knew quite well that people could have contradictory parts. “Wendy...do you know about the war?” 

That made her focus on Anathema’s face again. Anathema’s mouth had drawn tight like a bowstring, and her pupils had become dull pinpricks. The witch did not wring her hands -she didn’t seem like the type-but they were too still on her knees, the fingers crooking into claws. 

“What war? Armageddon? But...it didn’t happen.” 

“That’s the point,” Anathema said, in the same tone she used when describing the articles in her beloved conspiracy magazines. “We think there will be another one, because they didn’t get the fight they wanted the first time.”

“You mean demons and angels again?” She said. Shrill, in the way she hated. “Did Mum and Dad tell you that?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” Anathema allowed. “And it won’t be demons against angels. It will be all of them against all of us. I can see the signs everywhere. It’s no accident that you’re coming into your powers. It’s no accident the Them have been chosen as horsepersons. And countless other little portents. It’s the world and all its gods, spirits, and fae, the earth readying itself to fight for its life.” 

Wendy swallowed her tea much quicker than was proper and for the first time she understood why Mum in particular loved his liquor; she wished someone had dosed her drink with one of those ruinously expensive gins she'd spotted in her parent's liquor cabinet. 

“I saw Death in the woods,” she said. Dis lay his head on her knee as if he could understand her words. He looked up at her mournfully. She patted his ragged fur and almost burst into tears when he started wagging his tail. She didn’t miss it when Anathema and Newt exchanged glances over her head. “And then I don’t remember anything until you found me.” 

“All right,” Anathema said, brushing at her skirts. “Then the first thing we will learn are protection spells. But first, grounding.”

Anathema took a pair of golden knitting needles from the basket to her left, and then a ball of yarn colored blue and yellow in an eye-catching gradient. She handed them over and Wendy looked, skeptical, at the fiber in her lap. 

“How…?”

“Trust me,” Anathema said.

Wendy did. 

* * *

It wasn’t just the raging storm that woke Crowley from his well-earned sleep, though the storm in and of itself struck him as strange. Normally, Adam would never have allowed such a vicious weather phenomenon unless it increased the enjoyment of the Them. The children might enjoy adventure, but there was adventure and then there was miserable grey dribbling. 

Granted he, Wendy, and Zira didn’t technically live in Tadfield but they were usually the recipients of Adam’s largesse all the same.

_Adam is not here._

Now where had _that_ come from?

He slunk out of bed, terrified to wake Aziraphale. Terrified to draw _any_ attention; something was creeping around the cottage. A threat, a threat to him and his family. and he had to maintain some element of surprise if he was going to deal with it properly. Besides, Aziraphale had earned his sleep. It wasn’t just Crowley that felt exhausted after all the wicked things they liked to do to one another. 

His all too mortal body hurt, in fact, a fresh set of bruises and abrasions having bit into his flesh not a couple of hours ago. He tried not to launch into a series of heated expletives as his left knee buckled and all but sent him sprawling on the carpet. He put his hands out and earned a nice case of rug burn for his troubles. 

He would never admit it if asked, but he crawled to the chest of drawers, cursing under his breath. He would have loved to get dressed via miracle, but he put his clothes on the mundane way. The surge of miracle-magic needed to make the outfit appear on his body in a matter of moments could well alert not only Aziraphale but whoever might be sniffing around outside. 

Clad all in black, he opened the big bedroom window on the side of the house. He slithered out, taking a perch atop the rooftop like a gargoyle. He peered into the night, motionless, trying to spot the tiniest inconsistency. 

At first, Otmoor looked as it usually did. He could spot nothing out of place in the reeds and stones. The fields were empty. Their distant neighbors in nearby Tadfield were peacefully abed, chimneys wreathed in smoke. A little fire in the hearth to banish the chill; the clouds were a portent of thunder and lightning to come. 

Then he saw it. Just a little thing, really. A flash. A flash of light, by the garden.

_Could be anything. Blown circuit. Reflection of light from the moon._

He was already moving before he could finish his list of justifications to do otherwise.

“This is a mad idea,” he heard a voice say. It sounded so familiar it buzzed along his nerve endings, though he couldn’t quite make out enough auditory traits to be sure. Not over the crash of thunder, the first peal making him flatten himself to the rooftop out of pure animal instinct.

“Do you have a single better idea? One single better idea?”

The second voice asked, and for a moment he was transported to a tiny restaurant in Soho, watching Aziraphale eat scandalously-pink cake.

He switched to his snake form. It came slowly this time; he was still fatigued from the enthusiastic night he’d indulged in. But still, it came to him. He watched his limbs disappear into his snake body, and felt a warmth as his head rearranged itself. He loved his human body, but this was so easy; it was that much closer to his true form.

He chose to manifest as one of his larger versions. He made himself as big and long as a reticulated python, the form he’d used to whisper to Eve. Silently, he slipped from the side of the roof and onto the shoulders of whoever was below him.

The wind stole the scream from his opponent’s mouth. He wound them up tight, but not yet tight enough to kill. Whoever this was, was small and petite. They were easy to hold onto even as they thrashed and lashed out with tooth and nail. He snapped at the other dark figure, as yet unidentifiable - but while they did back up they didn’t look like they were about to jog on like Crowley hoped. 

In fact, the figure began to shimmer and shine. Instead of the sun on a spring’s day, it was the silver of a shield held high on a battlefield.

Only then did it register that the person he’d immobilized was shouting insults, the word traitor factoring heavily in the screed.

~Gabriel? Beelzebub?~ He blurted, knowing an angel - and a demon, since it was clear to him now that he had caught Beelzebub so off guard it was hard to imagine considering her cunning - could understand him in this form just fine. ~What in the bloody hell are you doing in my garden? A would-be _angel killer?_ And with HER?~

To his utter astonishment Gabriel didn’t finish his transformation, but he looked exactly like someone about to draw his sword at a moment’s notice.

“Crowley,” he said, the tone of despair and desperation completely out of keeping with what he knew of the bastard archangel who’d tried to burn Aziraphale alive. “Look, we…”

Gabriel’s face went sour, like he’d eaten a portion of rancid pork pie.

Crowley understood then what was happening, and the poisonous joy made him hiss:

~Come on, you can say it.~ He said in a sarcastic-wheedling tone that he knew would get right under Gabriel's precious over-groomed feathers. 

He put his fangs against Beelzebub’s neck, knowing he had to maintain his every advantage over her or she’d remember she was a Prince of Hell and fry him on the spot. He only just registered that she was wearing _a dress._

“We need your help,” Gabriel said, as though he’d just vomited the words instead of saying them. “Let her go.”

~Why don’t you just smite me? The Lord knows butter won’t melt in your mouth.~

“I would love to,” Gabriel snarled, his hands tensing into broad fists. “But if I do that, the other angels will definitely know we’re here. Let alone the demons.”

“Let me go, you stupid fucking snake. You reek. Like _angel shit._ ” Beezlebub hissed. “Don’t you have any self-respect?”

The Name pulsed at being mentioned.

~Say that again and I really will rip your throat out.~

“I’d like to see you try it,” she buzzed, not cowed in the slightest though he’d squeezed her hard enough to at least bruise her ribs. “Besides you idiot traitorous motherfucker, do you want a whole cadre of goddamn angels to come a-venging on your quaint little cottage? Your child?”

~Leave her out of it,~ he snarled, though the command lacked heat. She was right, of course. Someone’s sake, he hated it when she was right.

He let her go, curled up, and took his human form again. It was in time to see Gabriel come towards Beelzebub…was that panic in Gabriel’s oh so perfect violet eyes?

Before he could register the movement, Gabriel turned and slapped him so hard across the face that he hit the wall at speed. All the wind left his lungs like smoke dissipating into a night sky. His knees went to jelly and his vision went all white and spiky. He slipped to the ground; his head felt like a too-small venue for a Pink Floyd concert. A Pink Floyd concert where they’d just started in on one of those songs of theirs with all the ringing clocks. 

“Do it again,” Aziraphale said. One moment he wasn’t there and the next he appeared as if he'd shown himself to mortals and was about to say _be not afraid._ He stood in the eddies of the miracle he’d cast, multi-colored light making his eyes an unnatural shade of bright blue. “Touch a hair on his head, and I’ll cut you into quivering pieces.”

Crowley’s vision cleared. Aziraphale held Arondight in a tight grip, the glimmering point at Gabriel’s throat. Though Zira looked completely human, his stance had changed. He carried himself with a dignity and pride that no longer included that wounded quality he so often had before. 

Gabriel had clearly been expecting kind, naive Aziraphale, the foolish Principality who couldn’t even understand or appreciate Heaven’s plans, who took Gabriel’s abuse without comment. Wounded Aziraphale. Shamed traitor Aziraphale. 

That was not what stood before Gabriel now.

Crowley dove for Beelzebub again, lucky enough to see her moving towards Aziraphale with occult magic wreathing her fingers. He managed to knock her down and they each struggled mightily for control. He took her punches, blows raining down on his head and face. She reached up to try and claw his eyes out. He managed to wrestle one of her arms to the ground and pin it there. 

"I stink?" Crowley growled as they wrestled each other. "You _reek."_

"It's the smell of quality," Beelzebub said, landing a fist on his brow bone. "No wonder you don't recognize it." 

"Oh, _please,"_ Crowley huffed, trying not to show how dizzy he was after that punch. He slapped her hard in return, and tried to grind his knee into her belly to keep her on the ground. "It's like the inside of a bloody Staples." 

“Do we understand each other?” Aziraphale said, his voice deadly calm as if Beelzebub hadn’t been trying to stab him in the back a mere second ago. He stood straight, the muscles in his arms obvious in a way they usually weren’t as he held his weapon with perfect control. It wavered not even a little, as solid as Aziraphale’s cold rage.

“Get the fuck out of our yard.”

The new voice brought the fight and the threats to an abrupt stop. There stood Wendy, tenebrous in the black of night. Her nightgown flowed around her ankles like creeping ivy vines as the cold breeze played with the silk fabric. She was barefoot, the glittery blue polish on her toenails at odds with the tragi-comic tableau they'd all found themselves caught in. She held two long, sharp knitting needles, glimmering gold.

“Wendy,” Crowley said, lying awkwardly atop Beelzebub now that a fragile peace had been reached. “Go inside.”

“No,” she said, her voice tight with the beginnings of hysteria. “Mum, Dad, they tried to kill you! Not just kill you, but wipe you _out of existence.”_

“Child,” Gabriel said. “Please, we don’t have time for this.”

“Shit, she really is a mortal,” Beelzebub muttered. “We need to find a hiding spot and now. The Archangels won’t spare her.”

“And if we allow you into our home?” Aziraphale gritted between clenched teeth.

“I swear on the Choirs that I will not harm you,” Gabriel said, his white-gold energy flaring up to confirm the words as a geas.

“Me either,” Beelzebub begrudgingly added. “Get up, Crowley, for Satan’s sake.”

She pushed him off and he rolled to the side, feeling rather as if he’d been struck by a lorry. Gabriel came towards them. He tensed, but then realized Gabriel was headed for Beelzebub.

“Are you all right?” The archangel asked in a whisper, offering his hand so she could stand.

“I’m fine, white-wings,” she said. Crowley nearly turned inside out at hearing the Prince of Hell talk like that to anyone, let alone _Gabriel._ His suit was worse for the wear after the flight from danger they’d clearly had to take; Beelzebub did her best to smooth out some of the creases in the fabric, looking up at Gabriel as if to assess whether he really was all right.

“Well,” Crowley drawled, equal parts horrified and amused. “Are we going inside or not?”

* * *

Wendy stuck her knitting needles through the bun she’d twisted her hair into. Maybe the angel and demon had promised to play nice, but she didn’t believe it. It never hurt to have a weapon nearby, no matter how improvised. 

_Thanks Anathema,_ she thought as she followed everyone inside.

Dad helped Mum to his feet and they made for the house, with their unwelcome guests following.

Dis bounded down the stairs barking his head off, growling and snapping at the new arrivals. He was so riled up his fur was sticking out all over the place and Dad had to grab his collar to keep him from attacking. He strained against the hold, frothy drool dripping from his fangs. 

He settled from one moment to the next via miracle. He sat and went quiet but he still eyed the two newcomers suspiciously.

“Tell your story, please,” Dad said, his voice still strung tight like a railway cable. “Why have you ended up here of all places?”

Gabriel and Beelzebub, sitting on the couch, glanced at one another. They were sitting close, their thighs almost touching. She saw their hands twitch as if they wanted to link them, but didn’t dare.

Gabriel looked like a right prick in his suit and scarf, his face like a digital rendering of the hottest man alive; incredible to look at, but eerie, a little too inhuman to fully pass by observant souls without at the least an arched eyebrow and a lingering stare. He had an odd way of reacting to items in his vicinity, too; he occupied his seat as if he'd never learned what a sofa was or what purpose it was supposed to serve. 

Beelzebub had the same quality, in fact, though she was more honest about her sinister nature. She had short, messy hair and was wearing a dark red dress. It was obvious she didn’t usually dress in such a way; she wore it awkwardly, her shoulders rolling, her hips wiggling as if she were trying to squirm into the clothes like a snail into a new shell. Or a maggot wriggling into a putrefying corpse. 

“We…” Gabriel began. He fell silent, his tongue most thoroughly tied.

Beelzebub took over.

“We’re lovers, all right? We’re fucking.” Her black eyes had scarlet-red embers glowing in their depths, and they flared to life as she spoke. 

_She's willing to fight for this, at the very least._

Dad just rolled his eyes, but Mum lost it.

" _What_? You think I am going to extend you some kind of sympathy or compassion because of my relationship with Aziraphale? You’re heartless killers, the both of you. Why in all the _nine circles of hell_ would I help you? Do you know?” Mum continued, voice shaking with rage. “Do you know what it was like, hearing about that pillar of flame? To look at that tub of holy water?” 

She was close enough to Mum that she could feel him fairly vibrating with fury. He had that coily quality that told her he might decide to strike. She tried to calculate how quickly she could go for her knitting needles if things went bad. 

Beelzebub’s mouth turned up into a snarl of disgust. It was like she had a mouth made for that very expression; it came so readily to her. Buzzing sounds radiated from her person, and ripples of occult energy filled the room. She wanted to respond with violence - sheer malice almost gave Wendy a sunburn as she watched - but with a great effort she controlled herself.

 _Odd,_ Wendy thought. Beelzebub didn’t strike her as the sort to reel herself in as a matter of course. _They must really be in trouble._

“You tried to obliterate Aziraphale _from existence.”_ Mum continued, snarling as scales erupted over his body. “You self-righteous pieces of utter garbage. How many have you both terrorized beyond what even other angels or demons would accept?”

Gabriel, despite his big I’m-a-fucking-jerkoff-energy, winced.

“I know,” he murmured, and when she glanced at Dad he had his mouth open in complete shock. “You have to understand…I didn’t know what love felt like. Not then. Love as it is in Heaven and love for another person are...so very different. I should never have tried to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Now Mum’s jaw was on the floor too, though he recovered quickly enough to start muttering about plagues of rats and re-arranging the hallways in Heaven and Hell so no one could find their way out again. 

Dad, however, softened a little. Or at least some measure of starch came out of his spine. He pointed Arondight at the floor and came out of combat stance.

She still wanted to poke Gabriel and Beezlebub's eyes out, but she’d follow Dad’s lead. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t angry, and that didn’t mean she wouldn’t voice it. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she snapped, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Surely she didn’t have to _speak_ politely too? That was a bridge too far. 

“They found out I was having an…affair with an angel,” Beelzebub said, a distinct angry drone to her voice, though Wendy noted it was most definitely directed at Hell and not any of them. “I’m a Prince of Hell. They were not... _pleased._ Satan, of course, wanted to have ‘words’ with me. The forces of Hell couldn’t figure out which angel, but they were out for my blood regardless of who it was. It would have been my turn in that bathtub if they’d caught me.”

“We’ve fielded attacks from both Heaven and Hell,” Gabriel said, looking as weary as if he were human. “And they’ve finally cornered us. They’ll be here shortly.”

"Even after...?"

Dad asked, his voice ever so slightly faint with surprise. 

"After you and Crowley?" Gabriel asked. "Oh no. That _stung._ Both sides, being strong-armed into a no contact order by a couple of traitorous upstarts? They're making an example of us."

“Or trying to," Beelzebub said, her eyes fields of molten red. "We thought your mingled demonic and angelic energies would hide ours,” Beelzebub added.

“The Hell has happened to you, Beelzebub?” Mum said. He had his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans and was endeavoring to look relaxed, but his eyes, though partially hidden, gave him away all the same. They blazed nearly hot enough to melt the sunglasses right off his face.

Beelzebub chuckled, a mirthless sound. “Same thing that happened to you, Serpent of Eden. Love is a nasty bitch, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for a world with a soft Beelzebub in it,” Mum said, though now he seemed more like he was needling an old friend. Well, maybe a frenemy anyway.

“Ask my little swan over there how soft I am,” Beelzebub scoffed. Gabriel turned a particular shade of red not found in nature. Mum’s eyebrows shot into his hair.

"Hypocrite," Mom jeered, grinning fit to show his fangs, drinking down the delicious irony of the situation like a fine malted scotch. 

“This is all quite hilarious,” Dad interjected, voice dripping with scorn like mold in an abandoned church, stood half-full of stagnant water. “But I don’t trust either of you.”

“Do you bloody well trust _Michael_ more?” Beelzebub demanded, jerking to her feet with a rictus of rage distorting her features. _“Uriel?”_

That got a rise out of Dad and he ruffled up like an angry cat. She couldn’t help but wonder why that name in particular might hurt him.

“Low bar,” Mum muttered.

“I hate to say it, but they have a point.” Dad said in an even tone that she knew hid very uneven feelings.

“And you want to pull their wing feathers out and toss them out on their downy righteous asses,” Mum said fondly. It made Dad smile. Just a little one, but enough for the moment. Mum turned to Dad and stepped in to kiss him.

“Well….” Dad allowed when the kiss ended. 

“Right. So how long until a flock of pissed off angels end up on our doorstep?” Mum wanted to know.

“Any minute,” Gabriel rasped, his voice on the verge of failing him completely.

“Any bright ideas for hiding spaces?” Dad asked.

“There’s the root cellar out in the pasture, by the barn.” Mum reminded him, as if Mum had explored every nook and cranny on the property.

_Wouldn’t surprise me if he had._

We should take the girl with us,” Beelzebub said. Before Mum could build up another head of steam, Dad cut in with a different sort of storm.

He hefted Arondight as if it weighed nothing, pointing it at the newcomers as if he were sighting down a sniper rifle. The snake and the lion on the crossguard came to life, flowing in and out of one another like dancers performing a war song. 

“If this is a trick,” he said, and his voice filled the cottage without the need for Dad to even do so much as raise his voice. “If you harm a hair on her head, what you tried to do to Crowley and I will look like a reprieve compared to what I have in store for _you._ Do I make myself clear?”

Both Beezlebub and Gabriel sat frozen in shock. Their hands had linked at some point, and the grip was tight; both sets of knuckles had turned white.

“Y…you’re just a Principality,” Gabriel said, but his voice had a notable tremor when he spoke. 

“Just? Or do you forget that at one time a single buffet from our wings would level mountains? But it’s funny, Gabriel. You’re the one who demoted me and sent me to earth. But you never did take my wings, did you? The ones that marked me as a seraph? That could end up being a very big mistake on your part.”

Mum stood watching, clutching at the angel-feather necklace around his neck. Dad smiled like a knife.

“Perhaps I am simply re-learning what it is to be a seraph,” Dad said, biting off each word. “Now flee. I entrust you with my daughter. Do not break that trust.”

She didn’t particularly want to go with these two motherfuckers, but she thought of the battle to come and quailed. She would have fought, like she always did. But she felt exhausted, as if she still hadn’t recovered from Tisiphone.

Dad lowered himself to her level and set his sword aside so he could grasp her shoulders in a steadying touch.

“I love you, my darling girl. I don’t do this lightly; you’re already so brave. But trust me, and go with them.”

The lump in her throat was too big to speak around, so she just nodded as tears welled up in her eyes. Dad gently patted them away with the sleeve of his jumper and lead her to Gabriel and Beezlebub. They each offered their hands, and sensing no deception, she took them.

“Wait,” Mum said. “They don’t know it’s Gabriel you’re with?”

“As far as we know,” Beelzebub said.

“Maybe he can help us then,” Mum continued. “If those assholes come by and they see Gabriel trying to press us for info about where Beelzebub might be, that takes suspicion off him.”

A horn as clear as anything rang out from the woods. The cottage took on a polished-dime quality as angelic power swirled around them like shed feathers. Beelzebub and Gabriel exchanged looks.

Gabriel let go of her hand, but Beelzebub didn’t.

“I’ll do it,” Gabriel said.

“Go,” Dad said. Beelzebub ran for the root cellar, making sure she could keep up. 

_Not the kind of courtesy I would have expected from the Prince of Hell._

She glanced over her shoulder; the last thing she saw was Mum reaching out for her fruitlessly, Mum’s face a study in despair.

* * *

Gabriel took his place on the porch. Aziraphale watched him, wary still. He felt Crowley standing behind him some distance away; who could have missed him when his whole body radiated ferocity and hate? Helping their enemies was only marginally better than letting the archangels take them. 

Then again, anyone who fled the Choirs had to have a good reason. The Choirs were many things but kind was not one of them. For angels, they could be remarkably resistant when it came to the concept of forgiveness. Only humans and the Lord Herself had that luxury. 

He tried to take on his old posture, the bowed shoulders and the wounded gaze. The way he moved that said, _try to take advantage of me, it will be worth your time._ All the subconscious messages the other angels had beaten into him over millennia.

“Listen Aziraphale,” Gabriel snarled, falling into his role without a flicker of effort. “If you want to sully yourself with that _hellspawn_ , be my guest.” Gabriel wrinkled up his nose in disgust and it was acted so well that it made Aziraphale want to punch Gabriel in the teeth. “But even a pathetic angel like yourself surely wouldn’t agree with the Prince of Hell tempting one of our own.”

Oh yes. Now _this_ he could rise to.

Crowley too, for that matter, considering said demon had come up close enough to press against his back, shouting over his shoulder.

“Gabriel you fucking wanker, get the hell off of our doorstep. We had —“

“An agreement?” Uriel said, voice grimy with contempt and the sort of superiority only those who truly believed in their greatness had. “Regardless, we’re not here for you.”

_She wishes she was._

Aziraphale thought, staring back at her coldly until he remembered he was supposed to be at best nervous.

Michael’s reasonable tone came next as the archangels assembled at his door: “Have you seen the Prince of Hell lately?”

She always sounded like that, prim, proper. That phrase Crowely used, that was woven into those action movies he loved…good cop, bad cop. She was the ‘good’ kind, the one that massaged confessions out of unsuspecting persons of interest. Regardless of if those confessions were true or not.

Crowley snorted.

“Have you forgotten she tried to bathe me in holy water, Michael?”

A plume of murderous excitement rose in his heart, being reminded of how Michael had been the one to bring the holy water meant to erase his darling forever. Some dark urge within him would have done anything to put his hands on her throat and squeeze. 

“Would that it had worked as you deserved,” Michael said, a ray of loathing making it through her impassive expression. 

“Watch your mouth, Michael,” Aziraphale snapped. She narrowed her eyes and Uriel’s face became a mask of malice, but he had to put it out of his mind; if he thought on the things he was daring to say he would become an utterly useless quivering mass. 

“You should remember your place, Aziraphale,” Uriel intoned. 

“Ah, beneath your boot? I’m afraid as generous as the offer is, I must decline.”

“Let us in,” Sandalphon said. Aziraphale hoped his terror didn’t shine through. He’d gotten the message when Gabriel had brought Sandalphon to his shop just before Armageddon. It was no accident he’d brought the angel responsible for Sodom and Gomorrah. 

“It will be easier for everyone if you just fall in line, Aziraphale,” Gabriel added, smiling his smarmiest smile. 

He steadied himself, planting his feet. 

“No. You have no right. This is our home. You shouldn’t even be here.” 

He felt the wards around the house writhe to life. Perhaps they couldn’t keep three archangels (and one double agent) out, but maybe they would find it too costly and too time consuming to push their way past. 

In fact, Uriel stepped forward as if to do just that. Michael put her arm out to stop her. 

“Don’t -- “

The bond snapped together and lit up like the sun rising over an ocean, striking light like sparks from everything it touched. He could see it, silver-white cords all over as if they were binding the universe together. And Crowley’s heart in particular, open and so full of energy it looked like a blazing star purloined straight from the Heavens.

“Now,” Dad said in the same tone he’d used with Death, “stop darkening my doorway. And wipe your feet, please.” 


End file.
